


Traumatic Beasts and How to End Them

by KoshiSekisen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bad Decisions, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Charlie Bradbury Lives, Crack Treated Seriously, Dementors, Fanfiction within fanfiction, Gen, Harry Potter Crossover - Freeform, Hurt Charlie Bradbury, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sam Winchester, Mentions of The Lord of the Rings, Rowena's Attack Dog Spell, Season/Series 11, Sick Castiel, Team Free Will, Temporary Character Death, mentions of Destiel, mentions of Game of Thrones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-02 08:58:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 19,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12723522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoshiSekisen/pseuds/KoshiSekisen
Summary: He put the phone on speaker.“Charlie, what form did the Tulpa take?” There was a silence, and for a moment Dean wondered if she had even heard him. “Charlie, you with us? What form—”“I'm here,” she replied. Her voice was back to being small, almost timid. Sam looked as concerned as Dean felt. “You’re not gonna believe me.”





	1. The Phonecall

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This is neither a sequel nor a prequel to my other story, “Spontaneous Combustion.” I just happened to recycle the town and their inhabitants, lol. 
> 
> Also, please note that along the fic there is a momentary MCD scene, super short, and not graphic. I hate spoiling my plans, but I’d rather avoid upsetting my readers.
> 
> And, finally, there are many mentions of Destiel in a teasing way and, like in canon, Dean’s not happy about it. This isn’t a jab at the pairing or the fans (Chuck knows I _love_ Destiel!!) but I do hope no one takes it seriously or is offended!

Dean Winchester needed only four hours of sleep a day — a reasonable number considering he killed monsters for a living. Hit the hay, close his eyes, and up and running when duty called (or Sam woke him with another godforsaken case). Bedtime was something he understood and respected, hence his fondness for the memory foam waiting in his bedroom, or his irritability when his phone beeped in the middle of the night.

He rolled over, _not_ moaning, and slapped his hand over the side table, glancing at the screen blearily. The drowsiness cleared, replaced by confusion and the bite of concern.

“Yeah,” he said to the speaker, grimacing at the croak of his voice. “What is it?”

“Well, hello to you too, Winchester,” came the reply, the cheerful ring an almost painful contrast to his mood in the middle of the night.

“Charlie, it's…” He moved the cell away from his ear and dropped his head back to the fluffy pillow. “Three-twelve in the morning.”

“How am I supposed to know what time-zone you're in if you never bother to keep in touch?” She had a point. Whenever they parted, the promise of updating each other rang true yet remained unfulfilled. “You're back in your Bat Cave?”

“Back in the Bat Cave,” he nodded, his head already clear from the remnants of sleep. “Where are you? Got somethin'?”

“Small town called Edenwood, ‘about six hours away from you. And yeah, I'm calling about a case.”

Dean sat up, running a hand through his hair. Sure, they'd drop everything that minute and drive to her without hesitating, but Sam had sprained his wrist during their last salt-and-burn, and Cas’s mojo was still on its way to healing after Rowena’s Dog Attack. Sam and Cas could use an R&R, so he'd go on his own.

He stood, throwing his duffle bag on the bed and opening his closet.

“It's fine, you don't have to come!” Charlie exclaimed on the other side of the line. She didn't sound concerned or sheepish, just amused. “I mean it, big guy, I'm okay and I kinda want to clear this one on my own—it's the right case for me.”

“Another lesbian fairy?” he shot, unable to stop himself grinning.

“I wish.” She chuckled. “But no. Just—I need you to tell me how to kill a Tulpa.”

* * *

“A Tulpa?” Sam echoed, eyebrows high up his head. “She's going after a _Tulpa_?”

“S’what I said,” Dean answered with a shrug. He sat on one of the kitchen stools, eyes following his brother’s attempts to cook breakfast. “She wants to take care of it on her own, but I dunno if we should let her.”

“Let her? Dean, she's not a child.” Sam tried to flip the omelet awkwardly with his left hand — the right was braced and in a sling — but Dean stepped in and took the pan from his hands. “ _I'm_ not a child.”

“You can't even cook,” Dean teased. “She's a good kid and a good hunter, but I'm worried about her going solo. This ain’t the right job to do on your own, man.”

Sam gave up and sat on Dean’s vacated chair. “I could look into whatever case she's taking, and if it's over her head, we can drive up there. Edenwood, you said?”

While Dean cut the omelet into three pieces and readied the bacon, Sam took out his laptop and started to browse. It was still awkward — Sam could handle any weapon ambidextrously, but outside of battles his left hand pawed about pathetically. Sue him for wanting to take care of his brother: that's what Dean Winchester did.

Freshly squeezed orange juice and brewed expensive coffee ready, he set everything on the table.

“Find anything?” he asked after a pile of toast was buttered and plated.

“Not sure,” Sam admitted. “Sounds a bit obscure.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Of course it did. “I'll fetch Cas.”

Dean patted Sam’s good shoulder before leaving the kitchen and headed toward the angel’s bedroom. For obvious reasons, it was the room just halfway to the brothers’, right in the middle of the hall. It seemed like every time Cas stayed overnight in the bunker he was a step away from death.

He knocked and got no response.

Debating whether he should let him rest or force him to eat something (sure, he didn't _need_ the food, but it wouldn't hurt either), he decided he should at least check up on him.

Memories of the spell and what it had done to Cas made Dean’s stomach churn in anger. They got him back — the Rowena’s curse was lifted — but the aftermath turned out to be as dire as the attack itself.

After a minute of silence, he let himself in.

“Hey, Cas?” he called in a whisper. Nothing, though he made out a lump in the bed and the sound of rapid breathing. He knelt by it, fingers tracing Cas’s forehead. Still feverish—but less so than the night before. He stirred. “Rise and shine, sweetheart. Breakfast is ready.”

“Dean.”

At least he kept waking up lucid. “Mornin’.”

Cas shifted and propped himself up on his elbows, then sat up. Orange light flooded the room from the small lamp on the table when Dean found the switch, and he immediately noticed that despite his waxy complexion and the bags under his eyes, Cas didn’t look like death anymore.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes.”

Dean decided not to call him out on the lie. “C’mon, then.”

Cas got to his feet, swayed a bit, but managed to get to the kitchen unattended. The way he slumped on the chair next to Sam was pitiful, but Dean had to cut him some slack.

Dean caught the angel staring forlornly at Sam’s wrist. Neither had allowed him to heal it.

They ate — God, but was he a good cook — while Sam updated them on his research. “I didn't find anything particularly weird about Edenwood, but there is a recent article regarding its nursing home…”

“A nursing home?” Dean echoed, and he sipped his coffee. He'd never admit it out loud, but the grains Sam bought at the farmer’s market were good.

“Yeah. The patients keep having nightmares and they’re depressed.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “ _Depressed_. Well, I'd be too if I were stuck in a facility like that.”

Sam shrugged. “It's the only thing I found. Charlie must've heard something else. Did she mention why she thought it was a Tulpa?”

“Nope, just wanted info on ganking one.”

* * *

Dean’s phone rang as he dried his hands (it was Cas’s turn to wash the dishes, but he hadn’t had the heart to ask). Upon seeing Charlie’s name in the screen, he picked up while heading to the library, where Sam hunched over his computer and Cas read an ancient book, written in a language he wasn't able to identify.

“Hey, Charlie,” he said. They both looked up. “You’re on speaker.”

“Hi, guys! Who am I talking to?”

Dean huffed. If not for the phone call last night, he wouldn’t have guessed she was knee deep in a hunt — in fact, she sounded chill, and he could almost picture her at a poolside sipping beer.

“Dean, Cas, and myself,” Sam answered. “Dean told us about the Tulpa, is everything alright?”

“ _Cas!_ Hey, buddy!” Charlie exclaimed, ignoring the question. Dean rolled his eyes, Cas smiled. “I missed you, how are you?” And the giddiness in her voice dropped, instead turning serious and tentative.

“I’m fine, Charlie, thanks to you. Are you okay?”

Dean shared a look with Sam before flopping down onto the couch. Cas was right, if Charlie hadn’t been there when Rowena hit him with the curse, the damage would’ve been worse. She’d gotten in touch with the brothers, told Dean where to stuff it when he’d flipped over their secret Book-of-the-Damned-plan, and prevented a rabid Cas from escaping and harming innocent passersby at her own personal risk.

“Yeah—still pissed I let Rowena go, but I was pretty badass, huh?”

“Plenty,” Dean replied. “You’re one hell of a Winchester.”

“Charlie Winchester,” she repeated with a laugh. “I like the sound of that—except it sounds like I’m _married_ to one of you.” There was a pause. “Thanks, Dean.”

Dean grinned. Charlie knew them enough to understand he didn’t throw the Winchester surname around easily — people  _earned_ it, as Charlie had a hundred times over.

“So, about the Tulpa…” he said, trying to bring the subject back on track. “Did you plant a weakness?”

There was a some shuffling at the other end of the line. “I— _I_ didn’t. But it has one and everybody knows it…”

“You found out what shape it took? Maybe we can help you out,” Sam responded, frowning.

“I do. But like I said to Dean yesterday, I kinda want to try dealing with this case on my own.” Dean frowned. “I swear it’s been custom-made for me, and I so don’t wanna share.”

“Charlie, I get it, I do,” Sam replied, rubbing his forehead with his good hand. “But Tulpas are dangerous—you can’t kill ideas unless they’ve been created _with_ a weakness in mind.”

“No, Sam, listen,” she insisted. “I know that. I’m positive I can deal with it… I just wanted to ask you guys something.”

“Shoot.”

“Okay, so let’s say someone created this Tulpa with the Tibetan sigil, right?” She waited until they all agreed. “So if they had the power to turn this, ah... half of the story real, wouldn’t the way to defeat it also be real by extension?”

“Come again?” Dean asked, scratching his chin.  

“You mean if they created the Tulpa, whether the way to defeat it would automatically exist as well?” Sam sat up straight in the chair, wincing when he put his weight on his wrist. “I guess it would be a case-by-case scenario.”

“But, okay, if one thing cannot exist without the other… Then yeah, right?” Charlie’s pitch rose with her excitement, Dean could imagine her bouncing in her seat like a toddler. “Say—White Walkers and Valyrian Steel! If you bother creating one, the other kinda comes as a package deal!”

Dean opened his mouth, but shut it. White walkers? _What the hell is Valyrian Steel?_ “Is your Tulpa a suburban hitch-hiker?” he suggested. At the same time, Sam and Cas made an ‘ah’ gesture of understanding, nodding to each other. “Do _you_ know what she’s talking about?” he asked Cas, who cocked his head to the side at the accusing tone he hadn’t been able to contain.

“Yes. Thanks to Metatron I know all about fiction.” Right. He’d forgotten.

“Dean! You have Netflix so you have no excuse!” Charlie cried out, unable to hide a snort. “I’m not talking to you until you’ve binge-watched _Game of Thrones_. Cas, next time I see you I’m gonna go all Targaryen on you! How dare you not tell me you’re the King of Fiction?!”

“Is it GoT-related?” Sam asked, eyes wide with excitement.

 _Nerds_ , Dean thought, affectionately.

“No, no,” Charlie answered quickly. “It was just an example.”

“Okay…” Sam leaned back against his chair, stretching his long legs in front of him like he did when he concentrated hard. “Well, technically, it’s possible that the Tulpa’s weakness was created along with it… But it’s risky to fall back on that. Dean had to burn down the whole house on our last Tulpa case.”

“Is it tied to a place? It might be easier to eliminate it altogether,” Dean added.

“No, it shouldn’t be...” Charlie hesitated, before gasping. “Oh. _Oh_! You guys gave me an idea!”

“What?”

“Not saying—not yet. I’ll,” she paused, and the shuffling got louder. “I’ll get back to you later. You guys are geniuses!”

“Wait, Charlie!” Sam called out, but she’d already hung up.

* * *

Dean startled awake when his phone rang. He sat up, disoriented, before realizing he wasn’t facing Lucifer wearing Sam in a white suit, but in his bedroom at the bunker. The sheets clung to his body like a second skin, and he grimaced in discomfort. Any thoughts of hot showers and friggin’ archangels vanished when he saw Charlie’s name on the screen. It was four in the morning.

No good news ever came at four in the morning.

“Charlie,” he said upon unlocking the phone.

“Um.” Charlie’s voice shook, and for a second Dean wasn’t sure whether she was on the verge of laughter or tears. “Um, I-I might need help after all.”

“Status?”

“I’m fine, I’m safe,” she whined, her voice small. “I’m back at the motel, under the dingy bed covers, and I’m wolfing down milk chocolate like my life depends on it.” She laughed, but sounded so miserable Dean’s stomach ached for her. “I’m pretty sure that’s what Jo meant.”

“Charlie—”

“Thank God I thought ahead and bought Milka bars, just in case. Wish I had butterbeer.”

Dean frowned. He stood up, the duffel he’d thrown on the floor the night before back on his bed, open and ready to pack. “Charlie, what’s going on? You’re safe, right?”

“Affirmative.” And she sounded like she meant it, thank god. “But um, I might need your help after all.”

“We’re on our way.” He threw in his bag of travel toiletries, underwear, and Ruby’s knife. They kept the angel blades, a change of clothes, and their feds threads in the back of the Impala for these occasions. “Edenwood, right? Don’t move. It’ll take us four hours.”

“Six.”

“Four if I’m driving.” That made Charlie chuckle, and damn if that wasn’t the best sound he’d heard in a week. “Text me your motel address.”

“Dean…” she paused, and Dean waited, worry creeping in the back of his throat. “Thank you.”

“No problem, kiddo.” He zipped the bag shut with one hand. “Stay on the phone, don’t hang up.”

He slung the duffel over his shoulder. Deciding to wake Cas last, he knocked on Sam’s door before slamming it open. “Sam! We gotta leave now.”

He saw his brother’s form tangled in the blankets, and for a moment almost regretted having to rouse him. For a moment he considered leaving without Sam— he was still injured — but he respected Charlie’s abilities enough not to underestimate a threat. If he overreacted and Sam or Cas weren’t needed in the course of the investigation, they would live; but he wasn’t risking Charlie’s life in order to let them catch a few Z’s.

Sam mumbled something before startling awake, and he switched on the light of his bedside table. For a moment, he didn’t look like a gigantor sasquatch, just his scared little brother in the middle of the night. “Wha… what is it?”

“Charlie. We’re meeting her, now. Get your stuff ready, I’ll wake Cas.”

“Did she tell you what it is, yet?” Sam asked before Dean could leave the bedroom. He stopped in his tracks, frowning. He put the phone on speaker.

“Charlie, what form did the Tulpa take?” There was a silence, and for a moment Dean wondered if she had even heard him. “Charlie, you with us? What form—”

“I'm here,” she replied. Her voice was back to being small, almost timid. Sam looked as concerned as Dean felt. “You’re not gonna believe me.”

“Trust me, we’ve probably dealt with worse,” Dean said to soothe her.

“It was…” Just when Dean was about to insist again, Charlie spoke. “It was a Dementor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preview:
> 
> “I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Castiel frowned, resting his elbows on his knees and looking contrite.  
> “Well, fanfiction is—”  
> “—irrelevant to the case, I hope,” Sam interrupted.


	2. The Fanfiction Paradigm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Castiel frowned, resting his elbows on his knees and looking contrite.  
> “Well, fanfiction is—”  
> “—irrelevant to the case, I hope,” Sam interrupted.

Sam knew, despite having inherited the Impala several times, she belonged to Dean and Dean alone. Only his brother could make her run like the devil and keep her quiet in steep turns, invisible in the night and without angry police cars on their tail. Sam himself was familiar with her, recognized all her quirks, but not once had he managed to drive her as smoothly as Dean. Even when John had been in charge, she'd never flown like that.

Ergo, Deen behind the wheel in a crisis was a blessing.

As predicted, at this pace, they would arrive in little over four hours.

Meanwhile, though, both Sam and Cas attempted to explain to Dean what a Dementor _was_.

“But they’re the ones who resemble the Nazgûl, right?” Dean insisted. Sam rolled his eyes, as he’d tried to make them agree with this observation as soon as he remembered watching the Harry Potter film once on TV. “With the black cloaks and all, yeah?”

“They look similar in the films, yes,” Sam conceded. "They're completely different, though.”

“Dementors guard the Wizarding prison, Azkaban, and they are a metaphorical representation of depression and inner darkness,” Cas answered. He sat in the back, watching out of the window. He looked beat — he was still pale, his eyes red-rimmed either from lack of sleep or the remnants of fever.

“I can’t get over you knowing this shit,” Dean scoffed, which made Cas scowl.

“They also suck your souls,” Sam added, which ended any possible bickering in a heartbeat. “And we all remember how that ends. Turn left,” he instructed.

Charlie’s motel stood at the end of the street, a small two-floor building that could’ve easily passed as a family-owned inn. The sign, a whiteboard with the words “Edenwood Motel” in bold purple caps, contrasted sharply with the crappy neon signs they were used to. Sam switched off the GPS on his phone and, out of curiosity, tapped on the reviews. _Four-point-thee stars average, not bad_. He shared a glance with Dean, who shrugged, though his lips turned downward in contempt.

“Is Edenwood short for ‘WASP’s favorite picket-fenced suburbia’?”

As Sam got out of the car, he didn’t fail to notice a small park yards down the street, a cafe already bursting with mid-morning activity, and a group of women chatting happily in front of a flower shop. Despite knowing better than judging by appearances, it was hard to believe there was anything supernatural going on here. “I’ll get us a room,” Sam said, nodding toward the first floor where he spotted the secretary. “You guys go find Charlie.”

In spite of his bad arm, Sam took a moment to drop all their bags before knocking on Charlie’s door. Just in case, he waited for Dean’s muffled ‘come in’ before entering, and his heart melted at her. She sat in bed, huddled in blankets and surrounded by crumbled chocolate-bonbons’ wrapping paper and holding a mug of hot cocoa. To his relief, though pale, she beamed when she saw him.

“Sam! I _cannot_ believe you’re allowing Dean to not know Harry _the-boy-who-lived_ Potter,” she exclaimed in one breath. “Sure, GoT is a bad, but _Potter_? That’s a crime, Winchester.”

“Hey!” Dean protested from his spot in a chair next to her. “Some of us are busy saving the world on a weekly basis.” Cas sat on the sofa near the window, another cup of cocoa in his hands.

“Not my fault, Charlie,” Sam said in greeting. “How are you feeling?”

Charlie’s smile faltered, but she nodded. “Well… I either seriously underestimated Tulpas, or Jo fooled us muggles and magic _are_ real.” She snickered, a high-pitch giggle that betrayed her hysteria.

“You’re going to have to start from the beginning,” Sam amended, sitting next to Cas. To Sam’s surprise, her cheeks flushed dark red.

“Okay, so don’t hate me for this,” she began, scrambling to sit up to stare pointedly at the three. “You guys suck at keeping in touch, alright?” Sam opened his mouth to complain, but Charlie rolled her eyes. “So sue me for trying to keep up online…”

“Online?” Dean repeated, eyebrows high. “You mean on the Internet? Why would we on the… Oh.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose as he reached the same conclusion as his brother. _Of course_. “You’re talking about the Supernatural books, right?”

“The ‘Winchester Gospel’?” Cas straightened up where he’d been slouching. “I don’t understand what they have to do with the case.”

“Well,” Charlie smiled, all traces of fright gone from her posture. “Some people believe the books are real, you know? Just a handful, really, but enough to keep the Internet going. And when you guys go around solving cases, sometimes they notice and post it online — there’s a whole forum about it.” Dean opened his mouth to say something, but she interrupted him. “Sure, some are there for fun — and the gossip — but some fans are super hardcore.”

“So you, what, stalk forums for us?” Dean dragged his hand down his face.

“Is that how you find cases?” Sam asked.

“Well... yeah,” Charlie responded. “But anyway, I met this girl — not like that, Dean — who wrote about you guys and… long story short, for a moment I thought it was the real thing but it turned out to be fanfiction.”

It took Sam a second to remember what that word meant, but soon enough memories of ‘Sam-girls’ and ‘Dean-girls’ and ‘slash’ poured in this mind, and he recalled a few fans talking about ‘fanfics’ at the Supernatural Convention, back when Chuck was still alive. “Charlie, tell me you’re not reading fanfiction about us.”

“I really don’t want to know what that is,” Dean grumbled, but by the exasperated grimace on his face, he’d already guessed.

“A girl needs her hobbies, alright?” Charlie rolled her eyes. “You should see what they write about you and Cas, Dean.”

Sam couldn’t help the snort that escaped him at Dean’s bemused expression—which lasted for half a second, as he turned an interesting shade of white, and red. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, _Charlie_!”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” Castiel frowned, resting his elbows on his knees and looking contrite.

“Well, fanfiction is—”

“—irrelevant to the case, I hope,” Sam interrupted. The last thing they needed was Dean storming out of the room. “So yeah, okay, this friend of yours… did she tell you about the Dementor-slash-Tulpa?” Charlie’s eyes twinkled at the word-choice, but fortunately, she didn’t comment on it.

“Well, here’s the thing…” Charlie put down her empty mug. “She also writes Harry Potter fanfiction, and I was reading this Wolfstar story…”

“Who’s Wolfstar?” Cas asked, frowned. Sam tried to recall any characters by that name, in vain.

Charlie grinned at them with what Dean would describe as a ‘shit-eating grin.’ Sam decided ignorance was bliss and didn’t insist when Charlie ignored their question. “Not important. So there was this chapter about Dementors…” Her smile faltered and she looked away, all the excitement vanished in the blink of an eye. “And she mentioned in the Author’s Note she thought there may be one in her workplace, and she wrote a whole post about it on the Supernatural forum. It was kind of a long shot, but I figured since I was in the area I might as well check it out.” And meet her favorite fanfiction writer.

“She told you she lived here?” Dean asked, shaking his head.

“Um… not exactly. But she linked her Author’s Profile to her Tumblr, which is linked to Twitter, and that’s how I got to her Facebook page. Don’t look at me like that, Dean, I’m _not_ a stalker.”

* * *

When Charlie had first visited the nursing home, her author friend ( _DestielIsDestielIsDestiel_ ) sat behind the desk at reception, typing furiously — a new chapter? — on her laptop. A name tag rested on her breast (‘ _Nurse Josephson_ ’), and when she looked up from the screen to face Charlie, there was none of the flustering at being caught red-handed writing gay romance on the job.

“Good afternoon. How can I help you?” she asked.

“Hi,” Charlie said, smiling and looking around her.

The reception area was a bright room, with several comfortable chairs lined up on one side of the wall, and a water tank near the entrance. Big windows let in sunlight, which bathed the whole area in a fairy-tale like glow, and the wooden surfaces of the desk, counters and low tables provided a cozy setting. A small aquarium sat at the far side, its inhabiting goldfish swimming — and surely bored out of their mind. There must’ve been a radio somewhere behind the nurse because Charlie heard a string of classical music.

“Nice,” Charlie added after a few seconds in silence. “I need a place for my Nana… She’s been living on her own for a long time and I travel too much for work, so I’m looking for a new home for her.” She smiled, feigning awkwardness.

“Oh! Of course,” the nurse beamed. She shuffled some papers behind her and put a folder with a few catalogs and pamphlets on the counter.

Charlie only half-listened to the explanations: an overview of the facilities, a brief introduction of the main staff (she caught a stressed-looking doctor, and a yawning janitor), descriptions of the daily routines of the patients, payment options… Despite knowing how Tulpas worked, she had no way of hunting one unless she felt cold or had flashbacks.

If only she could ask ‘Hey, what about the thing you wrote about Dementors?’

“The point is,” she improvised as they exited the visiting area, “my Nana has these depressive episodes… I want to know she’ll be, well... cheered up.”

To the nurse’s credit, her smile didn’t falter. “Of course! That’s part of our job.” They turned a corner to a smaller room, where she picked up a few more pamphlets and handed them to Charlie, who took them by reflex. “Here is all the information you need… It’s a hard decision, but we take care of our patients. We’re a big family.”

Charlie nodded and promised to think about it.

Nothing in the building even hinted at anything supernatural, and despite it being good news, Charlie couldn’t help the bitter pang of disappointment. _A Dementor-Tulpa... That would’ve been way too awesome._ DestielIsDestielIsDestiel _obviously_ had a very active imagination, but damn, Charlie had wanted this case.

She would’ve given up if it had only been the blast of icy wind, or just the voice, but the combination of both sealed the deal.

The cheerful call echoed in the almost-empty halls as nurse Josephson walked her to the exit, as though someone hid in another room. After all these years, Charlie still reacted to her name and her mother’s voice.

“ _Celeste!_ ”

* * *

“That’s how I figured there was a case,” Charlie said. She kept her eyes trained on her mug, which she clutched so tightly her knuckles turned white. Sam’s chest ached. He recognized the expression: he’d seen it plenty of times in Dean’s face during the anniversaries of their mother’s death. “To the nurse, I was Felicia Day, and ‘Celeste’ _is_ peculiar enough not have been a coincidence. Plus, it got so cold all of the sudden...”

“It does sound like a Dementor,” Cas noted. Sam had to agree. It had been a while since he’d read the books, but the effects were unmistakable.

“So your writer friend summoned one,” Dean said with a frustrated sigh.

“And if she’s a fan of Chuck’s, she might've read about the Tibetan sigil,” Sam added. “And unless one of us can perform a Patronus…”

Charlie put down her cup. “I thought if there were Dementors, magic might as well exist... “ She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “And yeah, I’m pretty awesome so who else but me to Patronus the hell out of the bitch? I even bought Harry’s wand on Amazon Prime — I have Hermione’s at home.”

Sam listened as she continued to explain how, after calling getting over the shock, she’d gone back inside with the pretense of having left something behind. “Fortunately, the nurse got a phone call so I could walk around. I didn’t find any Tibetan markings or any kind of sigil, it’s like they’ve renovated it’s so clean. But I talked to a few patients who mentioned being sad, and I don’t know… With the voice and all, it sounded solid.”

“I can see that happening.” On the other hand, Sam wondered whether Charlie's own conviction was feeding the Tulpa… He kept quiet, but a shared glance with his brother confirmed that he suspected the same.

“And last night… Well, I was on my way to the Seven Eleven ‘cause I couldn’t sleep, and decided to pass by the residence, just to, well, keep an eye on it.”

“That was before you called me,” Dean noted.

“Yeah… I saw it.” Charlie shuddered, and Dean was quick to cover her shoulders with the comforter. “I _saw_ it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preview:
> 
> Charlie pressed on. “And second — yeah, I wasn’t sure if I should bring this up, but I know you and Sam think I’ve fed into the Tulpa,” — Dean looked down — “and I don’t blame you. But you _have_ to believe me, I didn’t.”


	3. Edenwood Nursing Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie pressed on. “And second — yeah, I wasn’t sure if I should bring this up, but I know you and Sam think I’ve fed into the Tulpa,” — Dean looked down — “and I don’t blame you. But you _have_ to believe me, I didn’t.”

“Thoughts?”

Dean closed the door of their motel room behind him. Sam sat on the chair, opening his laptop as he shook his head. _Yeah, go figure._

Charlie was a great hunter — Dean didn’t doubt that for a second, but her geekiness probably wasn't helping the case. Tulpas were a rare breed, but if the fanfiction writer and Charlie _both_ believed in it… Sure, it had taken thousands to build the one in Richardson, and they’d needed the Tibetan Spirit Sigil to top it off, but maybe the worldwide millions of hardcore fans counted as believers. He sighed, frustrated. He couldn’t begrudge Charlie, though, she’s saved their sorry asses often enough, and she hadn’t birthed the legend, after all. And she was right; if anyone could use a counter-spell it had to be her.

Sam typed away on his computer and looked pained as he replied. “I’m not sure. I don’t want to doubt Charlie — I honestly don’t — but it sounds like she might’ve been…”

“Yeah,” Dean interrupted. He scratched his temple.

“First of all,” Sam continued. “We need to figure out if it _is_ a Tulpa by finding the Sigil. It could be something else.”

“And even if it is, we should tell Charlie it’s not.” Lying sucked on a good day, but lying to a hunter made his skin crawl. “It might weaken it.”

Sam grimaced but didn’t protest. “Okay, so what _could_ it be? Physically… yeah, it’s a tall cloaked figure, and it’s cold and knows creepy stuff about people’s past.”

“The ghost of a psychic who died during Halloween.” Dean grinned at Sam’s bark of laughter. “I say we hit the nursing home and do some investigating of our own.”

They debated their cover while dressing up in their old fed threads, without ties, and with an open collar. Sam would pretend to be Charlie’s boyfriend and Dean had to pose as Charlie’s skeptical older brother. As Sam talked up his observations, Dean’s role consisted on rudely criticizing the house to prod for any weakness. People disliked criticism, but monsters became aggressive when confronted. Cas, as in real life, was their buddy who came along during road trips.

“Sounds solid,” Sam agreed. “Funny that _you_ chose to be the asshole.”

Dean scoffed. “I’ll probably mean every word I say — this town is so neat it gives me the creeps.”

It reminded him of his time living with Lisa and Ben, and those were memories that hurt and he was better off burying them. Emotionally constipated, Sam called it, though he preferred to think of it as hunter-oriented pragmatism. On the other hand, Sam _liked_ Edenwood — he didn’t say it, he didn’t _have_ to.

“I’ll get Baby ready,” he said, pushing thoughts away. “You get Cas and Charlie.”

* * *

Dean tapped the wheel in time with the guitar solo — he’d never said anything, and Sam proved smart enough not to mention it, but eventually, Sam’s iPod made its way as an addition to the Impala. He’d erased every single girly country-slash-pop song in it, and now all that remained were classical rock pieces. He still cringed when he plugged the darn MP3 in, but the music quality of the radio had plummeted after his first descent into Hell.

He liked to think he had something to do with that.

Sam and Charlie descended the stairs, both looking as though they’d eaten something bitter. Dean frowned when Charlie walked around the car and made herself comfortable on the front bench. Sam, hands in his pockets, stood next to Dean’s open window. “Hey,” he said when Sam said nothing. “Where’s Cas?”

“I convinced him to stay in,” Charlie replied. “He wanted to come, but he has a fever so we told him to sleep it off.”

“Guess the trip in the middle of the night didn’t help, huh.” Sam glared at him, which was unnecessary as Dean regretted the words as soon as he saw Charlie wince. “Shit. Didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know,” she answered, though she didn't meet his eye.

“I’ll watch him, he wasn’t feeling too hot.” Sam sighed. “You guys take care and keep us posted. I’ll do some fandom research. Heck, maybe I’ll even check the fanfiction.”

Charlie snorted, and for some reason, Dean desperately wanted to warn him to stay away from the Supernatural stories — dammit if he knew what people wrote about him. But Sam grimaced as he tapped the roof of the Impala. “Drive safe.”

“Yeah right, have you _met_ your brother?” Charlie exclaimed, earning herself a scoff.

As Sam walked toward the motel, Dean pulled the Impala from her parking spot and hit the road. Maybe his words had upset Charlie more than she’d let out, or she might be shaken by the Dementor experience, or worried about Cas, or just in a bad mood — but the silence in the car vibrated uncomfortably.

Weird. He’d never had problems talking with her.

Charlie fidgeted next to him, pulling at the skin in her nails, a habit Sam had developed while hunting with their father. _Dammit._ Was _he_ making Charlie nervous?

“You alright?” he asked, turning left at her instructions.

For a heartbeat, she was silent. Then, she nodded. “Yeah… It just sucks that you guys had to come all the way. I mean, Sam’s hurt, Cas’s sick, and you must be stressed as hell.” Understatement, but Dean wasn’t about to interrupt her. “And after Oz and the Mark, and Rowena and all, I really wanted to prove that I’m a kick-ass hunter…”

“You _are_ a kick-ass hunter.” The words came out more forcefully than he’d intended, but the intensity wasn’t lost on her judging by her hopeful expression. “We defeated the Leviathan _because_ you kicked ass, you saved friggin’ Oz, and if it weren’t for you, both Cas and I would be six feet under. The only reason we’re talking is _because_ of your ass kicking.”

“You had to come all the way because I couldn’t take a Tulpa.”

Dean scoffed, which made her frown at him. “It took Sammy and me — together — _days_ to kill the only Tulpa we’ve met, and we were _raised_ into the life. We might make hunting sound easy but dammit, Charlie, it ain’t, we’re just good at it because we’re fuck-ups at everything else.”

He didn’t need Charlie’s instructions to find the big building that housed the nursing home. Rather than the home he’d been expecting — grey, cold, and sad — the quaint building stood surrounded by trees, with a small garden right in front of a welcoming porch being watered by an elderly pair of women.

“Not too shabby,” he said, parking the car. The Impala contrasted wildly with the smaller Hondas. _I’m_ so _not made for this town._ “Ready?”

“Wait.” Before Dean could open the door, Charlie turned toward him. “First, you’re not fuck-ups, alright? At anything. And if you keep thinking like that, I’ll kick your ass, and then the Dementor will have you for dessert.” Dean opened his mouth to protest, but Charlie pressed on. “And second — yeah, I wasn’t sure if I should bring this up, but I know you and Sam think I’ve fed into the Tulpa,” — Dean looked down — “and I don’t blame you. But you _have_ to believe me, I didn’t.”

Dean made himself smile and winked at her. “I know.”

He absolutely detested lying.

Charlie’s pinched look indicated he hadn’t fooled her, but she didn’t press the issue. With a frustrated sigh, Charlie got out of the Impala — slamming the door a bit too harshly, to Dean’s chagrin — and, without looking back to see if Dean followed, rushed toward the entrance.

Dean glanced at the sign: “Edenwood Nursing Home.” A few discolored flowers were carved into the plastic, and for some reason, the prettiness of the whole town grated his nerves. It was always the pretty towns which had the ugliest monsters.

When he entered the lobby, Charlie was happily talking to a young nurse — she had big brown eyes and curly black hair, and stared at him intensely when he raised his hand at Charlie. Fortunately, her bad mood had either vanished, or she’d stored it away because she grinned at him.

“This is my brother Jensen,” Charlie said, nodding toward him. He cleared his throat at the name, but nodded. “He’s quite picky… You have to understand, Nana means a lot to us, she practically raised us! Jensen, this is Nurse Josephson.”

“Hey,” he growled, slipping into character. It would be better to act like a jerk from the beginning in order to make the nurse uncomfortable and defensive.

“Welcome. I’m sure you’ll love our facilities! We’re a big family.” She gave him a toothy grin, and Dean didn’t miss her gaze flicking toward his ring finger.

 _Ah, I’ve still got it._ But Charlie’s amused expression reminded him this pretty young lady spent her free time writing about him sleeping with Sam, or Cas, or whatever. Yeah, being an ass wasn’t going to be hard.

“Awesome,” he said, sarcasm clear. “The more sect-sounding the better, huh.”

The nurse’s easygoing smile froze, and Charlie raised her eyebrows.

“Shall I, um, show you around again?” The nurse directed the question at Charlie, for which Dean was grateful.

* * *

Charlie deserved credit. She deflected all of Dean’s biting comments with the natural dismissal of siblings and hung on nurse Josephson's every word. In the end, when they reached the sitting room — with huge windows to the gardens, and a grand piano on the side — Charlie even convinced her she would take over ‘convincing this stubborn jerk of a brother’ so that she could get back to her usual duties.

“I’ll convince him, I swear.” Charlie winked at her for effect, and nurse Josephson beamed and nodded.

“Let me know if you have any questions,” she replied merrily. “I’ll be at the reception.”

“She likes you.” Dean gave Charlie the thumbs up, and she grinned at him, all the tension drained from her shoulders.

“Of course she does,” she answered instead. “Seriously, though, if I _had_ a Nana, I wouldn’t think twice about bringing her here. It’s like Hogwarts for the elderly.”

A few people sat on the plush-looking armchairs and sofas, some in front of the huge plasma TV, and some arranged around tables with games and cards in the center. Despite the bright sunlight pouring in through the glass windows, the colorful paintings on the walls and the upbeat music of a reality show, something cold seeped into the atmosphere. When walking with nurse Josephson, or bickering with Charlie, he hadn’t caught the shadow-like bleakness of the patients and their companions.

Now, it felt stifling.

A quick look at Charlie’s expression — tightness around the eyes, biting her lip — indicated she’d noticed as well.

Randomly, Dean walked toward two women sitting next to the unlit fireplace. One was elderly, with heavy white curls and deep lines in her face, a pair of thick glasses resting on the tip of her nose. She wore the customary baby blue robe and fluffy pink slippers. _Might as well start with this one,_ Dean thought, and couldn’t help the smirk when the lady who spoke with her turned to face him. _Score._ She was an attractive woman in her mid-thirties, early forties at most. Her dark brown hair was tied up in a messy ponytail, her blue eyes highlighted by a fine touch of makeup. He found himself glancing at her ring finger. _Yep, married._

“Hi, ladies,” he said. They both smiled at him. “Hope I’m not bugging you, me and my lil’ sis here are looking for a place for our Nana, and we’d like to ask some questions about this home. If that’s okay, of course,” he added quickly when they both shared a look.

“Jensen, for goodness' sake, you can’t keep bothering people!” Charlie hissed with annoyance, rolling her eyes.

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” the pretty lady said, sending Dean a shy smile.

“We’re so sorry, this idiot never learned basic manners,” Charlie continued, and Dean fake-glared at her. “My name’s Felicia Day. This is Jensen, my older brother.”

“This is Claudia Burke, and I’m Janine Richter.” The woman said, her hand on Claudia’s arm.

“You work here?” Dean asked, noting the lack of a name tag on her breast.

“No, I’m just a volunteer. Claudia here is a dear friend of mine.”

Not once did the old lady look up. Dean kept his expression schooled into mild curiosity, though a sharp instinct born from years of hunting had him on edge. In his career, he’d seen enough people in all sorts of conditions to know those touched by the supernatural. There was none of the blankness brought on by age — the silent confusion and timidness, or the calm that followed decades of experience in life. Claudia’s ailment, whatever was wrong with her, ran deeper than that.

“We shouldn’t be bothering you,” Charlie said, frowning in concern at the woman.

Janine gave a tiny sigh and shook her head. “Claudia hasn’t been feeling well… Here, I’ll get her some warm tea and we can talk.” She got up, squeezing the hand of her friend, and nodded at Dean and Charlie to follow. “She’s been having nightmares of when her daughter was in a car accident — she’s fine, she’s fine — but it’s been bothering her.”

“And the staff isn’t doing anything?” Dean asked. Being an asshole about an old lady when speaking to a pretty woman clashed against everything in Dean’s DNA, but he had a part to play and a monster to gank. Still, he felt disgusted with himself. “Big help.”

“She’s having _nightmares_ , what _is_ there to do?” Janine replied, eyebrows high in surprise at his rudeness. Dean almost winced at her defensiveness. “The staff is bending over backward trying to keep these people happy. I wouldn’t be coming here in my free time if I didn’t believe it.”

“The whole place seems a bit…” Charlie hesitated. “Sad?”

“They’re all in the last stages of their lives, they’re not celebrating,” Janine answered, shaking her head, her tone dry. “But they’re all well cared for.”

“Are nightmares common here?”

“As… common as nightmares are anywhere else.” She paused, squinting her eyes at them, in an expression Dean would’ve called Cas-like. “I heard one of the nurses is particularly concerned with the patients being sad and reliving bad memories, but these people are… they don’t have much time left, of course they are heartbroken. I don’t think it’s that uncommon.”

“Aha!” Dean exclaimed, making a point to hit his palm with his fist. He grinned. “So there _is_ something fishy in this joint.”

Janine’s mouth opened, and she turned to Charlie, who rolled her eyes. “Sorry, he’s a conspiracy theorist. Don’t get him started on the Illuminati, he reads _Breitbart_.”

Janine huffed. “Look, I know these people — we have a great medical team, and I might just be a volunteer, but I care about them. Seriously, I understand you want your grandmother to be in good hands, but I promise you: this is a good home.”

* * *

Nothing. Squat. Nada.

The more they searched, the less likely any sign of supernatural monsters (Tulpas or not) were to pop up in the back of the doors, behind the books in the shelves, or underneath the carpets. In fact, the search took so long nurse Josephson checked up on them twice.

“We’ll be heading back now,” Charlie said, a tired smile on her face. After all, she’d barely slept the night before, and Dean himself could use a shut-eye. Irritation clawed under his skin, and the more he thought of the useless hours they’d spend pretending to cater for their fictional grandma, the more his act of being a jerk turned genuine.

“Sure. Do let me know if you have any questions, you have my number,” the nurse said with a smile. She seemed more confused than irritated at their long stay, but still regarded Dean with suspicion.

As they turned to the exit, on the way to the Impala — it’d become dark already, how many hours _had_ they wasted? — Dean growled, “Now what?”

“Now we…” Charlie, who’d been walking ahead with heavy footsteps, stopped. She looked up, eyes wide and glassy, as though she’d had an idea or remembered something. A deep flush appeared in her cheeks, then the color drained just as quickly. “Oh…” she breathed, turning around and looking around her. “Dean — it’s here.”

Adrenaline flared, his body catching up before his mind. He turned, one arm raised to keep Charlie behind him, the other on top of his gun; he couldn’t draw it in a public space, not yet, not until he’d secured the perimeter.

It hit him like a freight train — he saw both things at the same time.

The ten-foot tall cloaked figure, faceless, gliding through the air.

The small, black-eyed demon with a spiked whip and a promise.

The membrane-like huge, round, empty mouth; and a cold breath.

The sharp needle, as big as a finger, drilling shrilly into his eyeball.

The Dementor reaching out, taking something with it — something important.

“ _Dean!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preview:
> 
> Cas turned to Sam and nodded. “I raised him once from Perdition. I can raise him again.”


	4. The SPN Forum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas turned to Sam and nodded. “I raised him once from Perdition. I can raise him again.”

Sam grimaced as he swallowed the Tylenol dry — clearing his throat when it scratched all the way down. He could’ve drunk from the tap (a sign with a smiley face assured the motel’s tenants it was safe) but he didn’t dare run the water in case Cas woke up.

It still took him too long to fall asleep, Cas wasn’t used to relaxing and kept jerking himself awake, in a frenzy, each time more disoriented than the last.

It worried Sam. Rowena’s spell had been lifted over a week ago, and he was only marginally better than when they’d found him. Dean had taken to assuring them that Cas just needed some R&R — that he might not be fully human so they should count him as one. Sam, on the other hand, itched to gather his things and do a heads-on investigation to find a way to heal him: he was willing to consider finding another angel-ally (Dean would protest) or even risk asking Crowley if he had any ideas (Cas would protest).

Whatever the case, they needed him to be alright.

Sam sat with his feet up on Charlie’s bed, cringing in alarm when the mattress squeaked and Cas shifted with a groan. He didn’t wake, and Sam sighed in relief. His wrist throbbed painfully. Hand injuries were preferable to leg ones (at least you stayed mobile) but when done running, frustration pent up regardless.

With the computer on his lap, he did the only thing left to do: research. He itched to go with Dean and Charlie to the nursing home, talk to the patients and the staff, put together the pieces of the puzzle and kill the monster (whatever it ended up being). On the other hand, someone had to stay behind and Dean was worse than himself when idle.

He’s decided to put off fanfiction-reading and tackled the town instead. Google listed a number of small articles about Edenwood: _Cancer Patient Recovers Miraculously… Town’s Summer Festival Honorary Award to Sheriff Emily Burke…  High School Teacher Chang Rescues Stray Dog..._

As he moved to click on the link, his wrist twitched painfully and he hissed sharply as the spasm ran up all the way to his elbow. Next to him, he heard shuffling and a started groan, and Sam cursed. _So much for being silent._ He put the computer away with his good arm and sat on the chair next to Cas, who looked around the room in alarm.

“Sam?” he asked, breathlessly.

“Yeah, it's okay, we're fine.” They'd learned long ago that the only way to assuage Cas was to assure him the brothers were safe. “Sorry, I woke you up.”

“Don't—I'm sorry. I should've stayed awake.”

Out of habit, Sam reached out to touch Cas’s forehead. Clammy but hot, which meant the fever was yo-yoing again. He bit his lip, catching himself before asking him how he felt. Cas would lie, anyway.

“No problem. I'm trying to find information on this town… Gossip-like columns, blogs, you know. Even a local Harry Potter community would help, at this point.” _Anything but fanfiction._

Cas nodded, sitting up, but not getting to his feet; that was as much a statement of his misery as any.

“Are they real?” Sam asked, frowning. “Dementors. Not Tulpas, but the real thing.” He sounded like Charlie. Ten minutes ago he’d received a text from her, they hadn’t found any Sigil and were heading back. Dementors seemed far-fetched, but so had angels and God at one time.

“They could be,” Cas mumbled, glassy eyes staring unseeingly in front of him. “One could’ve been born as a Tulpa due to the popularity of the books and evolved into something else from there.” He looked up at Sam with a sad smile. “As you know, not all creatures were made by God. You were fish once.”

“So you’re saying it _could_ be a Tulpa…” He swallowed uncomfortably, as though the pill was still stuck in his throat. “And it could _also_ be a Dementor. Or a whole new creature.”

“I’d need to check it myself.”

 _Yeah, right._ _Like that’s gonna happen._ “Makes sense.” A shudder ran down his spine as he considered what the encounter would entail. Dementors — or whatever — caused people to relive their worst experiences, face their darkest moment of misery in a never-ending loop. According to the novels, Harry relived the murder of his parents’ and he'd passed out every time. What would _he_ see? His life sucked enough to slap him into a coma, or kill him outright (though if it hadn’t already, he was fairly confident it wouldn’t the next).

What about Dean? If anyone’s memories stank more than Sam’s, it was Dean’s. Or Cas… What would an eternal creature like _Cas_ see?

“If it really is a Dementor,” he said, rubbing his forehead with his good hand. The throbbing on his bad wrist had subdued, but he didn’t dare jostle it too much, “we’re screwed.”

Cas sighed heavily, leaning back against the wall, shoulders slumped. He was panting, which made Sam’s gut plummet with concern. _Why isn’t he getting better?_

Sam frowned, bending forward to help Cas lie down when a thump on the door startled him. His hand flew to his gun, but he lowered it upon hearing Charlie’s panicked voice. “Sam! Sam, open up! Hurry!”

* * *

“It’s a Dementor,” Charlie repeated, from beneath the pile of blankets on the bed Cas had lied in fifteen minutes ago. Her voice shook as hard as her body, fear and anger resonating clearly despite the layers. Sam said nothing. “I’m sorry, Sam! I really am, I swear I didn’t—”

“—it’s not your fault,” Sam interrupted her.

He didn’t blame her but it was difficult not to let the frustration show. Not when Dean was lying in bed, pale as a ghost and grunting gibberish. He twitched, fingers and shoulders spasming as though receiving electric shocks, yelping one minute and whimpering the next. He’d seen Dean like this before — straight back from Hell, days before confessing to Alastair breaking him after thirty years; back from Purgatory, back from the Mark of Cain. But, unlike those hundreds of other times, Dean wasn’t waking.

Dean wasn’t waking up.

Sam cursed. “Cas, Charlie, we’re going to have to treat this case like a real Dementor — whether it’s a Tulpa or not won’t matter when we kill it.” And now, more than ever, Sam would not let this monster go. “Fuck,” he breathed when Dean whined in his sleep. His brother wasn’t supposed to sound like that.

Not Dean.

“Charlie, Sam’s right,” Cas said, his voice a softer tone than Sam was used to hearing. “Let me.” And Sam felt a hot hand on his shoulder seconds before Cas kneeled next to Dean, swaying for a moment. The angel frowned, head tilted to the side, eyes curious but his mouth tight in concern.

“He’s dreaming of Hell,” Sam guessed.

“I know,” Cas replied, and it made sense that he did. Sometimes, Sam forgot Cas had once flown deep into the bowels of Hell to rescue his brother. A ray of hope threatened to unravel everything, because back then he’d been a fully powered angel…

As though reading his mind, Cas turned to Sam and nodded. “I raised him once from Perdition. I can raise him again.”

Sam wanted to stop him, he really did — but Dean had to wake up. _Damned if we do, damned if we don’t._ “Won’t this cost you too much?”

Cas looked at him pointedly, and Sam was reminded of words spoken years ago, words he hadn’t understood the value of. _Always happy to bleed for the Winchesters_. He placed two fingers at Dean’s temple, eyes closed, and then, like a puppet with cut strings, sagged pathetically at the foot of the bed. “Cas!” Sam cried, shocked, his pulse spiking. “Dammit, Cas!” Kneeling next to him, he cursed and awkwardly sat Cas up, leaning against him. Whatever color he’d gained after Rowena’s attack drained, leaving him pale as a ghost, his lips just as white.

And yet…

Dean's mumblings quieted, his shoulders sagged, arms and legs stopped thrashing, and instead of drowning in a nightmare, he was deeply — calmly — asleep.

“He’s… Dean’s…” Charlie said, sitting up on the bed and leaning over to look at Dean with wide eyes. “Cas, is he…?”

“He’ll be fine.” _He_ has _to be_.

Grunting, his wrist now throbbing again from when he’d hit the floor, he grabbed Cas by under the armpit and pulled him up. Dean could protest all he wanted when he woke up — Sam would actually welcome it, at this point — but those two would have to share a bed. He decided to let his brother sleep and went to the bathroom to wet a rag in cold water that he folded on Cas's forehead. He bit the inside of his cheek — just how much would this push back Cas’s recovery?

He sat next to Charlie; she was still pale, but at least she wasn’t cowering in guilt and fear anymore.

Good, he needed her help.

“Charlie, we’re gonna gank a Dementor.”

And she smiled, and for once Sam felt reassured. “We’ll Patronus the bitch.”

As they could only work in hypotheses, they cross-checked every piece of information they had (ergo, squat) and matched it to the original novels and Pottermore.

Dementors, the physical representation of sadness and depression, couldn’t be killed — according to the author, anyway. They grew like fungi, bred in the mists (Sam put down his coke in disgust at the thought), and their weakness were happy thoughts and memories.

“Well, then we’re screwed.” Sam declared, his lips tugging in an exhausted smile. “You’re right, Charlie, _you’re_ our only hope to defeat this.” Because Dean went kaput upon meeting it, and for all intents and purposes neither Sam nor Cas would fare any better.

The grin she gave him resembled a grimace. “Yeah, except every time I get near one I hear the last argument I had with my parents.” Sam winced in sympathy. “But yeah, I didn’t go to Hell, so I got that goin’ for me which is nice… Sam, what’s _your_ happy memory?” she asked suddenly, eyebrows arched up in curiosity.

Sam scoffed, faced with visions of Zachariah chasing them through Heaven — Dean’s Fourth of July, Sam’s first decent Thanksgiving. Yeah, now even their best memories were tarnished by the Apocalypse and Cas’s ex-supervisor. At Charlie’s confused expression, he explained. “But I guess if I _had_ to choose… It would be when Dean came back — alive. From Hell, Purgatory, Gabriel’s time-loop.”

“I’ll bet my Harry wand that Dean’s is you,” Charlie said with a happy sigh. “So, I’ve started a thread on the SPN — that’s Supernatural — Forum I told you about. Pretended I was a fanfiction writer who wanted to write a crossover and needed pointers,” she huffed at Sam’s pointed look. “What? We came up with nothing, I say it’s time to bring out the big guns.”

“Any responses?” he asked.

“Not so far, I sent an alert to my email so I’ll be able to follow-up… tomorrow. Sorry, Sam, I’m beat…”

* * *

Hunting with someone for decades created a bond, a special connection, so when Sam suddenly woke seconds before Dean’s gasp, he didn’t think twice before rolling out of bed and scurrying next to him. “Dean! Dean! You’re fine, it’s gone!”

“ _Fuck_!” Dean shouted, startling Charlie awake with a confused mumble.

To Sam’s worry, Cas remained sleeping, and a quick touch on his forehead proved the fever he’d nearly beat a couple of days ago raged on.

“Dean, you’re okay,” Charlie added, out of bed, squatting next to Dean.

It took Dean a few more seconds before he situated himself. He rubbed his face with his hands, grunting, though Sam didn’t miss the tension on his neck or the whiteness of his knuckles. “Fuck, Charlie, what happened? Did you Abracadabra it?”

Charlie rolled her eyes. Sam was glad Dean was up and joking. “No, sorry.”

“We’re working on a few more theories,” Sam added quickly, knowing Dean wouldn’t want them fussing over him. He’d never met a worse patient, and Sam’s relief overshadowed the urge to mother-hen him.

“Hit me.” Dean looked at Cas, his jaw set in concern.

“We’re working on the theory that it _is_ an actual Dementor — whether it is or not won’t change the fact we might need Harry Potter magic, we can worry about finding the sigil later if it comes to that.”

“Problem is we’re not sure how to summon a Patronus, especially considering they have to be made with happy memories… And you guys _literally_ went to Hell, so yeah.”

Dean nodded curtly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. Suddenly he seemed older — way older than his early forties. Dean made it easy to play happy-go-lucky, to the point Sam allowed himself to be fooled because the alternative was too depressing. “And Cas? He wasn’t half as bad even before we left the bunker,” he said, frowning when he put his own hand on Cas’s cheek.

The angel twitched and groaned.

Sam and Charlie shared a look, but Dean seemed to know without being told. “He pulled me out of whatever trance I was in, didn’t he. Stupid, son of a bitch.” There was no heat in the words. “How the hell do we fight against something that doesn’t _exist_ ? I mean, angels and Lucifer, yeah, but at least they’re _real_. This? This is A-level messed up.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Sam turned to Charlie, who held her smartphone in her hand and read her screen with her eyes open wide. “Someone posted on the forum. It’s simple — but…”

Sam stood up awkwardly (his knees locked and his wrist throbbed again) but he recognized the look on Charlie’s face. There was hope painted all over her, as well as uncertainty, yet if she believed it would help them he would trust her instincts.

“What?” Dean pressed, swinging his legs on the side of the bed. “Charlie, spill.”

“Okay, actually I think it makes sense… It’s not perfect, but it does sound reasonable.” Charlie sent them both a glare, stopping their interruption. “One user says ‘ _The only way to defeat a Dementor is with the Patronus spell because you_ can’t _kill them. Dementors grow where desolation lies_ ’ — poetic — ‘ _so it stands to reason that they are repelled by happy environments.’”_ Charlie sighed. “I figured as much, my first plan was to meet the person who’d summoned it and find a way to help, like therapy or something, you know? Anyway,” she continued. “It goes on, ‘ _We can assume that, in the world of SPN, that kind of magic wouldn’t come from witches_ ’,” (“No shit,” Dean mumbled.) “‘ _but there_ are _creatures in the canon ‘verse whose power is, essentially,_ ‘energy of pure creation.’”

Sam froze, his stomach dropping with dread. _No..._

“Heck, no,” Dean growled as he stared at Cas. Sam turned and startled when he noticed Cas was awake, watching Charlie with wide, red-rimmed eyes. He was still pale and had dark bags under his eyes, but his gaze was clear and alert. “ _No_ , Cas.”

“My grace… I can use it against the Dementor,” Cas rasped, panting. “I’ll do it.”

“ _Hell_ you will,” Dean snarled, his hands fists. “We don’t even know if that'll work, it’s all friggin’ _guesswork_!”

“Keep reading,” Cas asked, not looking at Dean. “Charlie, please.”

There was a moment of tense silence, and Charlie turned her eyes to Sam, pleading. Knowing Dean was going to kill him, Sam swallowed and nodded for her to continue. “Sam!” Dean hissed, but Charlie continued.

“...‘ _We can assume that the closest thing to the Potterverse magic would be angelic grace: the purest form of energy of both verses, granted by God Almighty himself to his Angels — his soldiers, and note that witches and wizards also use their gifts for battle. Other similarities include the randomness and-slash-or genetical predisposition of magic and true vessels, the innate ability to modify the world (even without a wand), and the general neutrality of both the wizarding community and angels, as some are good and some are evil. It is to be considered then that the only way to defeat a Dementor in the SPN verse is the use of an angel’s grace_.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preview:
> 
> He hoped this time death wouldn’t stick, either.


	5. Angelus Ex Machina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hoped this time death wouldn’t stick, either.

_Figures, the prettier the town, the uglier the case._

It was nighttime. The clock on the Impala read a little after two, though Dean’s smartphone showed they were seconds before the o’clock. He sat, fingers gripping the steering wheel, trying to reign the flashes of anger and indignation crashing away at his thoughts. Sam sat shotgun, his phone a bright beacon of light in the otherwise dark neighborhood. Behind them, Charlie tended to Cas, both silent, expectation rolling off them in waves.

Like Sam had said before leaving the hotel, if Dean and Cas’s position were reversed — if he was the one sick, Dean would undoubtedly throw himself head-first into the case to gank the monster, questions later, and hope to survive. After all, they had no time to waste if the Dementor roamed about sucking people’s souls… He didn’t want a repeat of a soullessness epidemic.

And yet the voice at the back of his mind that kept wondering whether a few old soulless patients were worth _Cas_ , of all people.

 _I can’t think like that_. In his defense, he’d be just as reluctant if Sam’s life was on the line.

 _A hunter can’t win_ . _Screwed if we do, screwed if we don’t._

“How you holdin’ up?” he asked, tilting his head backward.

“Fine,” Cas grunted. Dean bit back a scathing remark.

He’d only given in when Cas’s fever had lowered from moderate to low-grade and stood without swaying.

 _Everything_ could go wrong with this plan. For all they knew, Cas might not be able to get close without reliving his worst memories — and he was old as time and bound to have more than a handful (though, as Sam pointed out, they didn’t know if he’d be affected at all, either). Just in case, Dean had insisted on all of them using the angel blade before Cas attempted to smite the thing — the swords were still celestial.

On the other hand, they’d agreed to strike at night. Mrs. Burke’s nightmares were probably triggered by the Dementor, which meant it would also feed on them — and it made sense not to go around guns (blades) blazing with awake civilians all over the place.

They’d need to find a way to get rid of the guards and hack the security system; both objectives easy considering what they were really going up against (and the fact Charlie didn’t seem fazed while typing away at Sam’s laptop). Plus, Dean still wanted to locate the sigil.

He refused to believe Dementors existed — because that was a Pandora’s box to magic and muggles and thanks, but no thanks.

The air became chilly, though that might’ve been due to the lateness of the night. A flash of light shimmered through one of the windows on the first floor, which meant the guards came back from their shift on the upper floors where the bedrooms were.

“It’s show time,” Charlie whispered, putting down the computer screen and hiding the laptop under Sam’s seat, though she waited until Dean nodded and opened his side of the car.

Picking the lock of the kitchen door was easy considering Charlie dismantled the whole security system, and Sam and Dean went first in order to subdue the guards.

A few secret hand signals, nods, and shrugs later, they had two unconscious men tied up and shoved in a closet, and neither Winchester had broken a sweat. When Sam, in a hushed whisper, updated both Charlie and Cas, she’s snorted loud enough to startle them.

“See ya on the other side,” Dean said, rolling his eyes at them. With a hand on Cas’s shoulder, they silently climbed the stairs and took the second floor — Sam and Charlie would comb the third one.

* * *

“Feel somethin’?” Dean hissed, dragging his feet forward as quietly as possible. The wooden flooring didn’t sound as conspicuous as linoleum and rubber soles, but the hardwood creaked at times. They walked the corridors leading to the patients’ rooms in hopes of catching the Dementor at work.

Cas moved awkwardly behind him. “It’s a dark energy, I’m not sure I identify it,” he admitted in a whisper.

Dean bit back the urge to curse. A chill hovered in the building — not the fresh AC of up-to-date facilities, but a deeper, bone-deep cold he’d come to associate to the Devil and now Dementors. To his chagrin, he saw a shudder run through Cas’s shoulders.

How they were supposed to fight it without waking the poor patients was beyond him.

 _We’ll need to find a way to move it — the garden?_ He glanced through the window. Despite being just one flight up, he could barely see the small patch of grass and flowers, but even getting there in an emergency would require them smashing it and jumping (and possibly breaking their legs).  

_Fucked if we do, fucked if we don’t._

As if on cue, the temperature plummeted.

 _(You kill Sam if you can’t save him.)_ Dean stilled, his arm raising automatically in order to prevent Cas from stepping forward. ( _I'm afraid I might kill myself.)_ Yeah, Cas’s grace was the ace up their sleeve, but he wasn’t risking it. ( _You gotta want a little payback for everything I did to you._ ) A quick glance around them proved it hadn’t arrived. ( _No Dean, I wouldn’t. Same circumstances, I wouldn’t._ )

“The gardens,” Dean hissed, shaking his head to clear away the voices. _Need to think something happy._ He’d lost it once with Charlie, he couldn’t afford to pass out again with Cas.

Easier said than done. ( _Then would come the murder you'd never survive._ )

“Dean,” Cas called, his voice raised in alarm. Dean opened his mouth to reply, but then, for the second time, he saw it.

The tall, black-cloaked figure hovered a few inches from the floor at the end of the corridor, still more than fifteen feet away. ( _Take your brother outside as fast as you can._ ) The sounds, voices which Dean heard but refused to listen to, seemed to vibrate from it and the back of his mind, echoing each other in ways impossible to understand. ( _Then again, I guess it's not much of a life worth saving, now is it._ )

This time he didn’t freeze. Behind him, Cas’s sharp intake of breath snapped him out of his reverie, and before the memories took over, Dean dashed toward the windows.

_Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me._

Turning his back to a monster was incredibly stupid, but so was fighting a Dementor in a crowded area.

He immediately spotted the child-proof lock on the frame, and his fingers flew to the mechanism to unlock it. It couldn’t have taken him more than two seconds, but there was already a scuffle behind him, Cas’s grunts and a whooshing-like sound. Dean cursed as he slid the window open and turned in time to see Cas rushing toward it with the angel blade glinting in the night.

“ _Cas_!” he hissed, very much aware of the sleeping people around them.

His heart leaped to his throat when the Dementor glided backward, but raised its arm. A glistening, slimy hand-like protrusion at the end of the cape’s sleeve reached out to the angel, who took a sudden step back, just barely avoiding being touched. But any pang of relief vanished as Cas stumbled, falling in a heap to the ground, a harsh gasp reminding Dean that Cas was, for all intents and purposes, out of angel juice.

“ _Cas_!” Dean growled, grabbing Cas’s trench coat sleeve and pulling him up.

The Dementor was onto them so he did the only thing he could think of.

Yanking Cas with him, Dean jumped out the window and fell.

* * *

“ _Dean_!”

“ _Cas_!”

Dean gasped awake, opening his eyes wide and just barely able to get the darkened edges to clear out so the rest refocused. As his vision cleared out, so did his senses; pain hit him like a freight train. His nerves seared with fire from head to toe, every bone thrumming with an intensity that left him breathless. He tried to inhale but the oxygen wasn’t reaching him, and his ribs rattled uncomfortable in his chest.

On top of them, he heard Sam and Charlie, who’d obviously seen them jump.

“Stay there!” Sam yelled.

_Not goin’ anywhere._

_Fucking hell._

A fall from a second floor hadn’t seemed that stupid — not when facing a godforsaken Dementor — but only now he understood he could’ve died all the same. Where was the thing? And where was…?

 _Shit, Cas_.

He turned his head to the side and found Cas curled up on a ball, eyes closed. Dean’s blood pressure spiked in horror; a fall like that shouldn’t kill an angel, but… _Nononono—_ He gasped again when a wave of pain whitened his senses, sending a burning weight up from the depths of his guts to the hairs on his skin. Still, he fought, swimming in the agony until he dragged his arm to touch the angel’s wrist to check for a pulse.

_Where..._

And then there were hands on him and he screamed, both in fright at not being able to see whom they belonged to, and in pain as his nerves flared again.

“Shit, _shit_ , Dean, it’s me.” Sam. Dean allowed himself to sag in his arms, spasms interrupting his train of thoughts, just barely catching his breath and stop the groaning — Gods, but he sounded terrible. Sam’s voice broke like a radio out of signal. “How’s Cas?” Dean forced himself to listen.

“Unconscious, but alive,” Charlie said from somewhere very far away. Dammit. Had he hit his head? No wonder he’d broken to pieces. “Dean broke his fall…”

“Why the hell did you jump, Dean?” Sam asked, and even though he didn’t shout, the words echoed bizarrely in Dean’s skull.

“Dem’ntor.” Blood pooled in his mouth.

“We must to get them to a hospital,” Charlie said, speaking a mile a minute. She sounded panicked.

Well, broken bones (and internal bleedings — if caught in time) would heal, soullessness was a chronic condition.

“Call an am—”

“—no need.”

Dean groaned as another wave of torment — _Gods, this can’t be real_ — whipped him down. Yeah, he wasn’t going to survive this without help. He knew pain but had he pulverized _every_ single bone in his body? His vision, which had kept swimming in and out of focus, darkened suddenly and _crap, this is gonna kill me._

He hoped this time death wouldn’t stick, either.

“Who a—? Dean, _Dean_!”

Fuck, why the hell had he jumped out of the friggin’ _window_ ? He liked thinking he had a good head on his shoulders and the instincts of a prodigy when it came to fighting, but that risk had paid off badly. Maybe risking the patients would’ve been worth it — _anything_ was worth avoiding _this_ — but then if the Dementor had taken their souls the guilt alone… And Cas was defenseless… And Sam and Charlie…

He was gonna die.

Fucking Dementors.

* * *

Something flashed.

Wings.

_Wings?_

* * *

Cold air rushed inside Dean’s lungs, coating them with wonderful oxygen and sending a flood of information in his brain. (“ _...are you doing to him?!_ ”) The overwhelming sensation of brokenness, which had come upon him suddenly, vanished without a fanfare, silently, and yet the lack of pain stroke him as if he’d fallen on ice water.

For some reason, resurrection — _had_ he died? — always had him freezing his ass off.

Strangely enough, his vision took longer this time to focus, though he felt Sam’s arms tighten around him. “Dean!”

“Oh, thank goodness,” Charlie sobbed.

When he realized what had happened, panic gripped him. He scrambled to sit up, pushing Sam away from him, and turned to where he’d seen Cas, the movement sending a shock of dizziness that greyed the edges of his vision. His arm shot down to hold himself, and he found Cas’s icy fingers — he was still sprawled on the ground and out cold.

“Wh-wha…?”

“Who are you?” It took another few seconds for his eyes to settle, but at least Charlie’s voice sounded clear, without the muffled ringing from hell.

She was talking to a woman, her features pretty and familiar, who knelt next to Cas and Charlie. Dean almost stopped her from placing two fingers on the angel’s forehead until he remembered she’d brought him back — from wherever he’d went.

 _Surely_ he hadn’t died, right?

Dean only realized Cas bled from the head when the red trail disappeared.

 _Fuck._ Had they landed on their heads?

He’d killed them both, hadn’t he?

Anything that might have come with that realization — which he did _not_ want to deal with, ever — was thrust to the side when Cas _finally_ moved. Just barely, a single moan, but considering Dean had (almost) murdered his best friend, he’d take anything and call it a victory. He pushed away from the panic at his own actions because the angel who’d saved their asses stood up, her back straight and proud, and Dean recognized those blue eyes and dark curls, and the silver band on her ring finger.

Fortunately, Charlie remembered her. “You’re… you’re Janine. From the clinic today.”

“My name is Suriel,” Janine said, and were her eyes glinting? “And we need to talk.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preview:
> 
> “So they were right,” Suriel scoffed. “The Winchesters broke you.”


	6. A New Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So they were right,” Suriel scoffed. “The Winchesters broke you.”

_I cannot believe he got himself killed. Again._

Strangely enough, it was pure adrenaline and the urgency to deal with everything and anything which kept Sam from punching his brother. The tension at having an enemy vanish but not die, the panic at seeing Dean jump out of the window with Cas and landing on their heads, the bewilderment at the lady both Dean and Charlie seemed to know that just _happened_ to be an angel...

Real life didn’t really work this way.

Not unless you were a Winchester.

Janine, or Suriel, led them out of the nursing home and into the parking lot, next to the Impala. At Charlie’s question about whether the patients had noticed anything, she’d merely risen her eyebrow as though offended — sometimes Sam forgot how powerful angels were, and how much power Cas had sacrificed to be with them.

“You’re an angel,” Dean stated, simple. He still held his head with one hand, as if unconvinced he’d just had his cranium redone.

Sam was going to kill his brother the moment this chaos cleared up.

“Yes,” the woman said. “My name is Suriel, this vessel is Janine Richter. You met earlier today.”

“Why didn’t you tell us you were an angel?” Charlie breathed, eyes wide. She sat on the floor, Cas leaning on her shoulder.

“I had no reason to,” Suriel replied, squinting. “Janine did not suspect you to be more than what you said. I, myself, would not have come here had it not been for Castiel’s prayer.”

“Cas?” Sam asked, stepping forward, his arms outstretched protectively to keep them behind him. “He _called_ you? He knew an angel was here?”

“Doubtful, his grace is in tatters,” she said casually, making Dean growl. “I believe it was an act of desperation, and I would have ignored it… However, I was once loyal to Hannah, and she was his devout follower.”

_Until he killed her_ , Sam thought. As if she’d heard him, Suriel turned her piercing eyes toward him and frowned, an expression as cold as ice. _Can she read minds?_ If he expected an answer, he didn’t get one as his attention immediately shifted to Charlie, who gasped loudly.

“Cas! Guys, he’s awake,” she hissed urgently. “Cas, you’re alright, please wake up…”

Sam felt his knees go weak with relief when the angel opened his eyes, but the weight of dread didn’t leave his stomach when he noticed how confused and disoriented he seemed.

“You’re an angel,” Dean repeated, white with worry. “Heal him. Please.” And yet Sam saw him flinch when Suriel reached out to touch Cas’s shoulder — and he started when her hand touched his arm.

And they were gone.

 

* * *

A nauseating wave of vertigo assaulted Sam’s stomach, as though turning it upside down, his ears ringing deep in his skull. He recognized the sensation — although he’d only experienced it a handful of times — and it was always disconcerting to go from A to B in a heartbeat. The hand on his forearm released him and he took a few steps back, his feet not hitting pavement but a smooth floor of parquet.

“Fuck if I’ll ever get used to this,” Dean mumbled on his right. He retched loudly.

Sam opened his eyes and found himself in a wide home — in the living room of a quaint house, with a high ceiling and open space all around him. The furniture was modern and simplistic, of dark wood, and a forty-inch TV sat proudly in front of a five-person leather sofa. This was a home of the rich, and apparently where Suriel spent her time as human Janine.

“Wha—what?! Where… did you _teleport_ us?! Was that _flying_?!” Charlie exclaimed, her voice pitched, eyebrows high. She looked like she wanted to smile or throw up.

She still knelt on the floor, holding Cas, whose eyes began to open. Sam sighed in relief but jumped in alarm when he sat up suddenly, staring fixedly at Suriel.

“Castiel,” she said, her tone lower than before, eyes squinting in suspicion. Maybe she had heard Sam’s thoughts after all…

“Suriel,” he replied, his voice cracking at the end.

“Yeah, awesome, you're angels from the same flock or somethin',” Dean snapped, his hands in fists. “Now will you tell us why the hell there’s an angel here, and why there’s a _Dementor_ hunting old people?!”

That was rich coming from the idiot that had jumped the window and broken his skull, but Sam would have time to berate him later. After sharing a glance with Charlie — who still seemed overwhelmed at having flown and not realizing it — Sam straightened his shoulders and let his fingers hover around his waist, where he kept his blade.

“You would kill the angel who saved your lives?” Suriel asked, having caught his intentions.

“That depends,” Dean responded for him. “If you’re planning on killing us or somethin’, yeah.”

“No,” Cas gasped, sitting up. Charlie held him, one hand on his chest and the other on his shoulders, steadying him. “No. You can’t harm her.”

“I am not going to hurt you,” Suriel replied, taking a step backward and motioning them toward the sofa. “Janine — my vessel — she is urging me to tell you to get comfortable, she is a thoughtful woman like that. But I am not making you ‘tea,’ before you ask.”

The way she used air quotes reminded Sam so much of Cas — so long ago, that he could help but crack a smile. Even Dean took a step back and lowered his hand.

“You can talk to her? She’s _aware_?” Sam asked. Jimmy — bless his soul — had once told them being possessed was like being chained to a comet, but Sam himself hadn’t realized when Gadreel had taken over his body.

“Yes. She talked to both of you this morning, I saw it.” Suriel shrugged and gestured for them to move over to the couch. “Sit,” she hissed, her arms flapping around her awkwardly.

Sam helped Charlie with Cas — whatever she’d done to heal him had lowered his ever-persistent fever, and despite the initial dizziness he could manage to walk on his own and stay sitting up. Dean, hobbling as though still dazed by the hit in the head, refused to be assisted, and Sam recognized guilt when he saw it. It was only when the band on his neck pulled that Sam remembered his own injury… which didn’t hurt when he fisted his fingers, and a nod from Suriel told him everything he needed to know.

“Thank you,” he said once they’d all sat down, taking off the sling and the bandages. He stuffed them in his jacket’s pocket.

“Yeah, um,” Dean muttered. “Thanks.”

“You are welcome.” Suriel still remained standing, arms crossed. She turned to Castiel, her features severe, lips drawn in a thin line. “Castiel. Why are you here?”

“A case,” he answered, elbows resting on his knees and frowning at his hands. The pose was so familiar Sam breathed a sigh of relief. “Charlie called Dean for a case — a Dementor.”

Suriel tilted her head. “Janine knows what it is, but it does not make sense… It is a human creation?”

“It’s from a novel,” Charlie replied, eyes wide and a smile breaking through. “A series, actually. A Dementor is the physical manifestation of sadness, depression, despair. A human created them through her books — they are crazy popular — so we thought it was a Tulpa.”

“Which are made sentient by hundreds of thousands of people believing in them,” Sam took over. “The only way to defeat them is to discover the weakness they were created with, and kill them.”

“So a human spawned this monster…” Suriel huffed.

“Technically,” Charlie acknowledged. “And we’ve been trying to find its weakness and there was only one conclusion…”

“Angel blades,” Dean said at the same time as Cas replied, “Angel grace.”

“We don’t know if the blades will be enough,” Cas insisted, shaking his head. “It’s pure divine energy, it’s the closest thing to the Harry Potter magic we have.”

“Well, now we might not have to _use_ yours,” Dean intervened, nodding toward Suriel. “You’re bummed, and she’s fully charged. _She_ can smite it.”

The air chilled — and the warm, friendly atmosphere that had grown with their safety vanished; almost as though the Dementor had found them. Instead of the dark memories, a sharp electricity-like clap filled the air, and despite the room not darkening a shadow fell over them. Sam, who’d looked around expecting a supernatural villain, turned sharply at Charlie’s gasp and, had he not been sitting, he might’ve fallen over.

Two long shadows rose behind Suriel — _wings_ —  and Sam, who’d mostly seen them burned to the ground, couldn’t help but admire the liveliness of their shape, how they seemed to ruffle with the angel’s anger, how _alive_ they stood in the sharp contrast of what he remembered. They circled the whole perimeter of the living room, spacious as it was, feathers fluffed and puffy, and yet intimidating in their blackness.

Charlie stared, open-mouthed, eyes wide; only Cas and Dean looked ahead unimpressed. Sam had never appreciated how much guts it must’ve taken Dean and Bobby to stab or shoot Cas when they’d first met.

By the time Sam’s fingers closed in on the angel blade, Cas stood up, fists balled at his side. “Suriel, stop.”

“ _You_ ,” Suriel spat, her voice carried with it a strange echo that ached. She glowered at Dean. “You small, pitiful human, you dare try to _use_ me as if I were a _tool_ ?” She took another step further, and Cas straightened. Dean, next to Sam, crossed his arms and glared harder. “I saved your lives, you _owe_ me respect — I am an _angel of the Lord._ ”

“Thanks for that,” Dean said, shrugging. “But if you think I’mma let that Dementor take away the souls of innocent people, or allow Cas to kamikaze himself; you’ve got another thing coming.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam hissed.

“Suriel.” Cas’s voice was calm, which awed Sam as much as scared him. “He means well, and we _are_ indebted to you — but if you dare hurt him I will kill you.”

“ _Kill your own sister?_ ” Suriel exclaimed, and the wings behind her flapped so quickly Sam almost missed it. “I do not know why I am so surprised — you massacred Heaven.”

“Bunch of—” Dean hissed, and thankfully Cas interrupted him.

“I can never atone for that,” Cas spoke so softly, Sam could barely hear him. “But they are my charges and I will see no harm to them. I want us to be allies, Suriel, but they come first. They always come first.”

“So they were right,” Suriel scoffed. “The Winchesters broke you.” Dean tensed next to him.

“Look, Suriel.” Charlie’s voice shook, but her jaw was set. “Dean meant no disrespect, and Cas might’ve made some mistakes but he’s also saved the world — and Heaven — and you said your friend Hannah believed in him, right?” That must’ve struck a chord because Suriel’s face softened and the wings’ shadows lost their blackness. “We only want to help these people, and even Janine told us this morning that she cared about them so much! Dean didn’t mean to _use_ you ‘as a tool’—” Just in case, Sam shot Dean a look to keep him quiet, but Dean just stared at Charlie as though she’d grown a second head. “—but we need your help to beat this thing and save the people of this town.”

For a moment, only silence filled the room. Then, Suriel spoke. “Janine also feared there was something demonic involved, so I have tried to find this creature — this Dementor — you mention, but it flees when it senses me.”

“You must be like a Patronus to it,” Sam sighed. “A ball of pure energy. You make it vanish.”

Suriel nodded, though she frowned, probably not sure what a Patronus was in the first place.

“That’s why it disappeared when you found us,” Charlie continued. “But then why is it there in the first place? Is it because Janine takes over?”

Suriel’s lips thinned. “I believe so.”

“Great, just _great_ ,” Dean hissed, hands fisted. “So we’ve got the juice but only when there’s no monster. Fan-fucking-tastic.”

“Dean,” Cas cut in. “I can do it.”

“As about twenty minutes ago you couldn’t even stand!”

“Because you threw us out the window,” Cas interrupted, and Dean recoiled as if he’d been hit. If Sam didn’t agree wholeheartedly with Cas, he might’ve felt bad for his brother. “I could’ve tried to smite it.”

Cas’s eyes held a look Sam had seen often and never understood — but Dean did. He deflated, shoulders sagging, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Right, whatever.” Dean turned to look at Suriel. “Look, I don’t know how you’re gonna do it — but you’re gonna help us gank that Dementor.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preview: 
> 
> _“NO!”_  
>  He would never know whom that voice belonged to.


	7. Thanks For The Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“NO!”_  
>  He would never know whom that voice belonged to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay! I had a technological crisis...  
> (Both my home and my work computer broke down. At. The. Same. Time.)
> 
> Notes:  
> There are numerous flashbacks in this episode during a battle scene.  
> That can make the reading confusing... Sorry about that!

He’d head somewhere that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing each time expecting different results, which meant they’d all been reduced to the mental soundness of a Leviathan. How Sam insisted on looking at the bright side was beyond him, and Charlie went all out in trying to cheer them up. Only Cas seemed to understand the grimness of the situation, which never bore well.

They’d talked in Suriel’s-slash-Janine’s living room until the wee hours of the morning. She ushered them out before her husband came back home from his shift at the hospital. Charlie had pushed relentlessly for theories, adding in the mix whatever ideas she got on the forum’s thread as she received them, softening the tension between Suriel and Dean… and Sam and Dean.

He still hadn’t wrapped his head around the fact he’d killed himself jumping off a window — but at this rate, it wouldn’t really matter. After all, he was no stranger to pianos thrown on top of him, being electrocuted, and choking on breakfast, and all on the same day.

Yeah, they had more pressing issues.

Suriel couldn’t gank the Dementor because it ran when it sensed her, meaning the forum was right in that grace was similar to the Patronus Spell. Worst-case scenario, the Dementor would be kept in line by Suriel’s presence as long as Janine visited the home. Best-case scenario (which Cas had come up with and Suriel agreed with), angel juice would go one step further and actually _kill_ the Dementor.

And, of friggin’ course, everyone was willing to give it another try.

Charlie even returned to the nursing home the following day — Sam and Cas _insisted_ Dean stay put — to check on any altercation their break-in had caused.

Which was a silly thing to do considering they had a fully-powered angel on their side now. Turning back time, changing the course of history, tweaking memories here and there… easy peasy for Suriel. Just how low had Cas actually fallen for them? Thinking about it made it seem like the Dementor was in close proximity again, enough that he’d grabbed his blade because the Winchester life dragged every single soul to hell and lower.

Sam, his arm functional, typed on his computer. Cas looked out the window, expression unreadable, but at least whatever Suriel had done to him had yanked him out of death’s door. He had more color on his face, his fever was down, though to be honest, he was a far cry from the seraph he’d met back in the barn. Dean sat up, laptop on his knees, but the Google search bar was empty. He was out of ideas.

A rattle of keys and a quick “It’s me, guys!” prefaced a smiling Charlie, who dashed to Dean’s side and sat on the edge of the bed.

“That was fast,” Sam commented, raising his eyebrows. “Everything alright?”

“Yes. Nobody noticed anything last night — even the guards you put down said nothing. Suriel did a neat job.” Charlie rummaged through her bag. “I met Janine. She said she remembered the conversation we had with Suriel, she’s _so_ cool.” At Sam’s expression, she quickly stopped him from interrupting her. “She’s keeping an eye out, and apparently Suriel’s cleansing the area for tonight.”

Dean tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. “Right.”

The plan. The _stupid_ yet _only_ plan they had.

The _let’s-do-what-we-did-yesterday-but-Dean-don’t-jump-off-windows_ strategy.

Go to the home in the dead of the night, where Suriel would keep everyone sleeping and Janine (not Suriel) would stand guard in the parking lot in case she was needed again. Patrol the corridors in search of the Dementor, find it, stab it and wish it worked. If not, throw Cas into the mix for him to smite. If not, hope to God and pray he listened that Suriel would make it in time to save their asses again.

It sounded like a typical Winchester solution he’d go for any other day of the week — but involving Cas _and_ Charlie?

Too many times had people died on his watch swinging it the Winchester way. Jo, Ellen, Bobby, Kevin.

And yet, if they didn’t, the rogue Dementor would keep feeding on souls.

_Screwed if we do. Screwed if we don’t._

That sounded Winchester alright.

“Sam,” he barked, startling his brother who’d just finished polishing the swords now that he had good use of both his hands. Charlie and Car turned to him as well. “You’re staying here.”

It took a moment for Sam’s expression to change — his jaw dropped and a small smile pulled at his lips, but his eyes widened. He scoffed. “You’re kidding.”

Dean glared at him, resisting the urge to crack his knuckles. If their positions were reversed he would definitely _not_ stay in, but every fiber of his being resisted taking Sam along for the ride. Dammit, _he_ ’d passed out the first time, what would it do to _Sam_ who’d been trapped in the Cage with the Devil himself?

“Do I look like I’m kidding.”

The laptop crashed against the coffee table as Sam sat up, his long arms hanging awkwardly at his sides as though unsure whether to punch or strangle him. “If you think I’m staying here while you—”

“I’m not giving you a choice!”

“I’m a grown man, Dean, I don’t _need_ your permission!” Sam exclaimed, hands in fists. “You’re the one who jumped off a window, Dean—”

“Will you stop bringing it up?!”

“—and neither Charlie _nor_ Cas are more qualified than me and _you know it_!”

“It’s not about...” Dean hissed, unable to find the words. He turned to Charlie, who stared at them with wide eyes, lips in a tight line. She shrugged. Cas watched them, unblinking, his gaze shifting from Sam to Dean as though reading a book. “Dammit, Sam. But this thing... this Dementor thing? It messes with your head, man. Charlie freaked out for good reason—”

“—are you talking about Hell?” Sam snapped, rolling his eyes. “I know what I’ll see, I’m ready.”

“No, you’re not!” Dean shouted, standing up from the bed. He cursed his brother for being such a gigantor, it had been easier to bully him into listening when Sam was shorter. “You don’t just _see_ it, Sammy, you’re thrown _back_ there! And if this all gets shot to hell we’ll be needing a backup.” He’s completely made up the last part as he spoke.

Sam scoffed. “ _No_ , Dean. No. I managed the visions when the wall broke” — Cas flinched — “just fine, and I’m not stepping back. You wouldn’t, either.”

“You’re being unreasonable! Cas, tell him.” Dean turned to the angel, who’d apparently forgotten to blink.

“Dean’s right to be concerned, Sam,” Cas said in the end, slowly, measuring his words. “However, Sam’s not wrong, either… He managed when I broke the wall the first time...”

Dean glared at them. “For fuck’s sake, Cas!”

“Dean…” Charlie called softly. She moved toward him cautiously, lips pursed in worry, a soft hand on his arm. “We’ll be fine. Sam will be fine. But we need to be _together_.”

 

* * *

 

Days later, Charlie would remark that Dean’s dark, brooding mood had been key. The moment they’d slipped in the building — armed with angel blades and chocolate, of all things — just in the reception area where nurse Josephson wrote her damn fanfiction, the Dementor hovered over the ground, its tall frame blackened by the memories it brought forward.

_(He helped. Maybe even more than we realize.)_

As disgusting as the first time he’d seen it, the cloak that covered it breezed away, widening its presence and taking up the whole desk area he stood in front of. The light was minimal, just a sliver of moonlight and the yellowness of the streetlights outside, but in the dark, the creature seemed bigger than Dean remembered it being the night before. _Wait, these things don’t_ grow _, do they?_

It was now the third time Dean faced it, but that didn’t make the encounter pleasant. On the other hand, it made it easier to force his muscles to unfreeze and his brain to _think_ . Words brushed the back of his mind _(I planned to stay all along.)_ with the urgency of adrenaline — but Dean steeled himself against them.

And charged.

He heard a gasp — Sam — but he didn’t turn, _couldn’t_ turn, because they only had one shot at it and he wasn’t gonna let it feed off of anyone’s souls. ( _But I think, underneath... I just miss the feeling._ ) With a snarl, Dean turned the blade in his hand and—

—crashed into the counter, knocking his shoulder with a bang so loud it distracted him from the pain.

“ _Dean_ !” Charlie screamed, and there was another shout and Dean turned right in time to see the Dementor _glide_ to the side. Fortunately, Charlie managed to stop herself from hitting the floor. _(She wishes she'd never met you_ … _you're the worst mistake she ever made.)_

Behind her, Cas strode forward with the same determination he’d seen the night before, arm raised and blade ready, chest heaving — but stumbled — Dean opened his mouth to yell as he saw it reach withered claws when there was a shout. His feet moved before he’d even thought about it. Dean reached over to cover Sam who’d jumped to tackle the Dementor and — there it was — Dean swung his arm in a high arch and buried the angel blade to the hilt on the monster’s back.

It was like poking melted butter, ( _He's gone! He's dead! We run the show now._ ) almost squishy and strangely warm _(Like_ _you helped Amy?)_ and oily in _(454895)_ texture. The surprise barely _(Seems stupid to get all precious over one little... soul.)_ had time to register before Dean _(You ignored a direct order back there.) retreated_ on instinct as the voices in _(That's one deep, dark nothing you got there, Dean.)_ his head exploded in a cacophony of shrieks — and before he knew it  someone had pushed him out of the way as another thud interrupted the flashbacks until he was able to focus on Charlie screaming as she buried her own blade on the thing’s side.

Dean gasped as he felt his weapon, which he’d miraculously pulled with him, slip from his grip—

_(You’re obedient. And suicidally stupid.)_

_(Your problem, mate, is that nobody hates you more than you do.)_

_(The End is nigh, the Apocalypse is coming, kiddo.)_

—-and he found himself on his back on the floor. Charlie dropped to her knees a few feet away from him, coughing and gagging as she fought back sobs. He thought he heard the words “... _sorry…_ ” and “... _mommy…_ ” and, wait, he knew that voice; he shifted in time to see Cas hit the chairs in the waiting room and stay down, immobile.

_(You're still gonna die. You're still gonna burn.)_

_(Boys shouldn't play with Daddy's guns.)_

_(I conjure and command you, show me your face.)_

_(If I can get us a shot on the devil, Dean, we have to take it.)_

Dean forced himself to his feet on shaky legs and finally spotted Sam. His eyes were blown wide open, pale, jaw set, but he jumped forward and with the momentum, stabbed it in the mug.

The monster’s hands touched Sam’s arms, who shuddered as though hit by lightning, but he held on and Dean was reminded just how strong Sam was and how little right Dean had to underestimate him. Sam shouted as he pushed the blade deeper into the slimy head — it was smooth, blank, the soul-sucking mouth blown wide open as it _absorbed_ the weapon and inched its way into Sam’s own set expression.

Sam wasn’t backing down — fucking _fool_ — Dean felt his throat burn with what must’ve been a shout but his surroundings floated in a sea of white noise. His whole body exploded with the need to protect Sammy. Dean slammed bodily against the Dementor, the softness he’d experienced with the blade an inconsistent bounce, as if hitting all fat and _(I always trust you, and I always end up screwed.)_ flesh _(People in your general vicinity don't have much in the way of a life-span.)_ and _(The secretary was first. Remember her? Nancy, the virgin.)_ no _(Kind of gets clearer when you're dead.)_ bone.

_(They cleared a path for us. Which means that this is—)_

_(A trap. Exactly.)_

_(Well, then we can't go through the front.)_

_(Oh, we're not. They are. They're the decoys. You and me, we're going in through the back.)_

_(You mean you're gonna feed your friends into a meat grinder? Cas, too? You want to use their deaths as a diversion? Oh, man, something is broken in you. You're making decisions that I would never make. I wouldn't sacrifice my friends.)_

_(You're right. You wouldn't. It's one of the main reasons we're in this mess, actually.)_

Charlie shouted his name, all four letters processing in a dance of sounds in turn of words he’d heard before, but this time it all blurred, the nightmares melting into one another — like an explosion so loud the human ear could not perceive it. Dean held onto her voice and gravitated toward her, toward reality, as he found himself hitting something solid and caught a flash of tan...

“ _NO_!”

He would never know whom that voice belonged to.

Cas’s hand reached the Dementor’s head and, for a moment, nothing happened.

And then there was an explosion of light and sound and everything exploded around them.

 

* * *

 

It took a while for things to get in order. Thoughts processed and memories got in line and deep in compartmentalized shelves down his head, and the hardness under his fingers solidified into the wooden floors of that damn nursery home. Sounds took longer to unmuffle, like an unsynchronized radio or listening to a rock song backward, until Dean made out pants and grunts and huffs, from Sam and Cas and Charlie—and himself.

There were no voices of distant pasts hounding him anymore.

And then his eyesight returned with the fogginess of a severe concussion, some red spots a film in his eyes, the darkness not helping keep anything in focus.

Sam must’ve regained his senses sooner than anyone because Dean half-saw his silhouette move across the room and suddenly a clack rang in before a bright and absolutely horrible white light flooded the area. A stab of pain gonged against his skull and he swore, though the words came half-a-second late; maybe he’d managed to crack his skull again.

Sam leaned against the wall, his fingers a few inches from the light switch. In the middle of the reception, chairs overturned all around them, Cas and Charlie kneeled in front of a vicious slop of black, its lack of shine and its acidic putrid smell enough to wrinkle his nose—and Dean Winchester knew too much already about monster stench. Cas slumped forward, barely catching himself in time to avoid hitting the slime puddle, and before Dean could step in to help him, Charlie did. She moved him away from the… remains… and sat him down on a chair Sam quickly straightened and—

“Wha… what are you holding?” Dean asked, blinking to make sure his eyes weren’t tricking him. But things were clear and the bite of the overhead light dimmed to a dull throb and he could see what Charlie carried. It wasn’t the angel blade.

It was a stick.

“It’s,” Charlie hesitated, and the flush of her face could be exertion, excitement or embarrassment. “The Harry Potter wand I bought on Amazon.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preview:  
> “Hey, Cas. Did _you_ see anything?”


	8. Wrapped Up And Ready To Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, Cas. Did _you_ see anything?”

Sam and Charlie came up with several theories regarding the Dementor, and with the help of her forum actually concluded that it had been the combination of both Cas’s smiting and the wand that had pulverized it (despite many users’ refusal to accept Dementors could be killed in the first place).

It was easy to explain Cas’s smiting effects; angelic powers were mean any given day, and Cas was weakened enough not to repel it on the go like Suriel had. They debated heatedly on the effectiveness of the wand, for Cas insisted he wouldn’t have been able to smite the thing without Charlie’s assistance despite Dean’s initial disbelief. Dean hadn’t seen everything, though—Sam had. When Cas’d planted his hand on the monster’s face he’d faltered, and only when Charlie jumped forward and skewered it with the wand, it exploded.

When Suriel found them, mere minutes after Sam turned on the lights, she quickly confirmed, to everyone's relief, that it was gone. She’d been quick to heal them — Dean’s second concussion in two days, Charlie’s dislocated shoulder, Cas’s bruised ribs, and Sam’s frostbite where the thing had touched him.

Despite the mojo, however, they’d been beat. Suriel, not quite as cooperative now that the town wasn’t in danger anymore, had let Janine take the wheels and she drove them to the motel where she kissed them on the cheek and asked for one more visit before leaving them to rest.

Surprisingly, for two days Dean had allowed them the luxury of lounging in complete and utter laziness—no doubt he was worried about Charlie, despite her excitement at their victory, and Cas, whose grace remained in tatters after all but was as well as he’d ever be. Suriel had done a good job on them, there were no traces of injury or illness, yet there was a blanket of exhaustion none of them seemed able to shake.

* * *

Something nagged Sam, and though he wanted to take Cas aside and ask him it never felt like the right moment. The evening of the second day since the battle, while Charlie and Dean binge-watched Game of Thrones, however, Sam finally nodded at Cas and signaled for him to follow.

Cas put down Charlie’s dog-eared copy of _The Prisoner of Azkaban_ , and tilted his head in confusion when Sam sat on a bench just outside the motel. “Sorry man,” he said, stretching his legs in front of him. “Just thought you'd like some fresh air.”

“Thank you,” Cas replied with a nod, hands deep in his pocket. He sat awkwardly next to him, looking down at the gravel. Sam knew the angel pretty well, and Dean might not want to talk feelings, but there was something Cas wasn’t telling them.

“Yeah, apparently Charlie’s into GoT as much as Harry Potter,” Sam laughed. At Cas’s silence, he pressed. “Hey, man. There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“Anything.” But if the lines under Cas’s eyes were any indication, he did not want to hear the questions or offer an answer. Sam forced himself to continue.

“The Dementor… It messes with people’s heads, right?” Sam stretched his arms over his head, relishing in the comfort of a healthy wrist. “But they’re not lies. They’re the most terrible real memories that happened... “ He waited until Cas, who didn’t meet his eye, nodded. “So what I saw—what it showed me—it was _real_.”

Cas sighed. “Yes, Sam.”

“I saw many things,” Sam admitted.

He’d had two days to come to terms with it, but still his stomach rolled. His father’s violent threats and Dean’s submission; his first hunt where Dean got heavily injured trying to protect him; the thousand times he’d died for Gabriel’s amusement… And Hell. The Cage. He’d thought the Lucifer hallucinations when the wall broke were bad — they’d literally driven him insane — but the actual _memories_?

“I actually relived what he did to me,” Sam muttered. He couldn’t help it, it was as though saying it aloud would make it happen all over again. “I get the feeling, in a way, like the wall crumbled for a few minutes but it's back up and I forgot all over again … It’s like a distant memory. But you were there.”

Sam turned to watch Castiel, who’d looked up, eyes wide, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. Sam forced a smile, but nausea morphed it into a grimace. “I saw you, man. You pulled me out—literally. And I never got to thank you—”

“—I left your soul—”

“—it doesn’t matter. I _saw_ what it did to you. You never said anything, Cas. And I never _thanked_ you… Heck, I don’t think _Dean_ ever thanked you either for hauling his ass but yeah… Thanks.” Cas just stared, unblinking, and Sam actually felt bad for the guy. “We suck at thanking you, huh.”

It took a few tries, but Cas finally did draw a small smile. “I’d do it all over again.”

Sam patted him on the shoulder and stood up, helping Cas despite him not needing it. As he pushed open the door to the room, another question popped into his head. “Hey, Cas. Did _you_ see anything?”

Cas’s eyes widened a fraction before he turned and entered the room, leaving the question unanswered.

* * *

The third morning dawned bright and warm, the breeze just cool enough for a jacket and a welcoming cup of black coffee. Charlie and Cas had left early to visit Janine — Charlie had even bought her flowers for her help, and Cas wanted to talk with Suriel once more before parting. She was, after all, the only angel they’d met recently that hadn’t tried to actively kill him.

A few minutes ago Charlie had written Sam a text saying they would drop by the nursing home to formally introduce herself as a fan to _DestielIsDestielIsDestiel_ (Sam insisted Dean call her Nurse Josephson, not Nurse _StopItStopItStopIt_!). To Sam’s amusement, Cas sent Dean a few texts asking who Destiel was and what book did Wolfstar appear in, because Charlie wouldn’t tell him.

“So, what _was_ it?” Dean asked while stuffing his duffle bag with the rest of their weapons. They always packed those first when leaving and last at the end of the trip, one of John’s lessons. “I’m still not clear whether it was a real Dementor, as fucked up as that sounds, or a Tulpa and we just  never found the sigil.”

Sam, who was the only Winchester who could fold their FBI threads without wrinkling them, looked up and shrugged. “Like Cas said, maybe it started out as a Tulpa and evolved… Or the sigil could still be hidden here somewhere and we kept missing it.”

“You’d think _you ’d_ want to know,” Dean muttered.

Sam scowled. “In an ideal world, yeah, but dude… This thing _actually_ killed you. I’ll take a win where I can find it.”

Dean’s grimace felt like a small victory. “Yeah… About that.” He cleared his throat, and Sam abandoned all pretense of putting the dress shirts in their suitcase. Dean turned to sit on the bed, Sam remained standing. “You're aware I didn’t do it on purpose, right?”

He sighed. “Dean. I’m not saying you did, but don’t you think we’re getting a bit _too_ lucky?  We’ve died… what? More times than we can count—and we’ve always managed to come back.”

Dean clicked his tongue. “Deals with demons, and archangels, and the friggin’ Trials… Yeah.”

“We might not get lucky next time, Dean,” Sam pressed, frowning. “I mean it—you’ve—okay, _we’ve_ got to stop pretending we’re immortal.”

“I didn’t think I’d _die_ from jumping—”

“—that’s the problem, you didn’t even _consider_ the fall could kill you! Any other sane human being would’ve had second thoughts.” Dean bit his lip, glaring at him, but Sam knew his brother well enough to understand he was putting himself in Sam’s shoes. What if Sam had flipped and cracked his skull open? Dean grimaced. “We need to stop this because one day neither of us will be able to come back.”

“So no more reckless behavior then,” Dean summarized, but Sam winced at the tone. “I should’a left Cas to rot while I jumped ship—fuck, that's not what I meant. I can’t do that, man. Not to you, or Cas, or Charlie…”

“I’m not—I’m not saying…” He rolled his eyes, doing his best to ignore the ache in his chest. “Just… Just, well, when possible…”

Dean glared at him, and dammit but Sam hadn’t wanted to turn this into a fight. He was saved from Dean’s justice rant by a knock on the door and Charlie peeking in with a huge grin on her face. Ever since they ganked the Dementor, her mood had lifted, and her excitement was contagious to the point even Dean seemed to deflate at her good-humored laughter.

“Hey, bitches!” she exclaimed, beaming, closing the door behind Cas who’d been unusually sullen since Sam had asked him that question.

“Hey! How’d it go?” Sam said.

“Well, Dest—I mean, nurse Josephson, she was actually pretty happy to meet a fan, of course I explained that our cousins would take care of ‘Nana’ so she didn’t suspect…”

“Didn’t she think it was creepy that you knew it was her?” Dean asked, cocking his head to the side.

“Well, I didn’t tell her about the Tumblr-Twitter-Facebook thing, I just had Cas inconspicuously show her PoA and we got talking.”

“She was genuinely… pleased to find out you read her stories,” Cas added with a small smile. Charlie grinned.

“If Dean here wouldn’t kill me, I’d send you the link.”

Dean bristled, which made Charlie burst out laughing. Sam chuckled.

She helped them pack the last of their belongings and demanded to foot the bill for both rooms — despite Sam’s assurances they weren’t using their own money. When Dean insisted, she just rolled her eyes. “It’s going from your hacked accounts to my hacked accounts, either way, nobody here’s paying except a sleazy millionaire who owns golf courses, casinos, towers, and steaks.”

Sam snorted.

Charlie winked at him, and a shared look with Dean proved neither of them intended to push the matter.

“You sure you don’t wanna come to the bunker?” Dean asked, nodding his head toward the Impala. She bit her lip, bouncing on the balls of her feet, obviously tempted.

“I do… But I got some stuff to do. Next time. I’ll drop by with the rest of the GoT seasons.”

Dean scoffed. “Even without them you know you’re always welcome, right?”

Her face softened, and suddenly her cheeky smirk was replaced by a much more subdued smile. “Thanks. No, seriously. I mean it. Thanks for coming all the way when I called—I should’ve swallowed my pride earlier.”

Sam smiled. “If there’s one thing we Winchesters understand is pride.”

“I’ll miss you guys—keep in touch,” she said, and she looked pointedly at the three of them before leaning in to hug Cas, who returned it with an honesty it had Sam itching to join them.

Next to him, he thought he heard Dean say something about ‘chick-flicks.’

“You take care of yourself,” Cas told her earnestly.

“What he said,” Dean nodded, opening up the Impala. Before he could hop in, she stepped forward and hugged him.

After she finished hugging Sam — he kept forgetting how small she was — she walked backward toward her tiny yellow car, facing them. She seemed contrite, biting her lip and frowning, until she sighed and raised her hand to her mouth to amplify her words. “I never told you the memory I drew in during the…” she made a stabbing motion, looking around her cautiously despite there being nobody in the parking lot.

“Wanna share with the rest of the class?” Dean asked, eyebrows arched high.

She entered the car and pulled down the window, leaning out as she turned the engine. “You said I was one hell of a Winchester,” she shouted to drown out the motor.

Sam chuckled, a rush of affection so warm any Dementor would melt on the spot. He watched Dean’s expression change from confusion to surprise, until it broke into a smile that made him look younger.

She winked at them, turned, and drove off.

“Good times,” Dean said, patting the hood of the Impala. “Good times.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh! I wanted to post this yesterday on Christmas, but the editing software I use is too much for this ole' computer of mine...   
> Thanks for your patience!


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